


When the Ribbons Dance

by zeesmuse



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, NaNoWriMo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-28 12:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12606672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeesmuse/pseuds/zeesmuse
Summary: Bronwyn Davidson is an American Archaeologist who lives and breathes Welsh History - especially if that Welsh history is related to the myth of Madoc the Explorer. With an ugly divorce behind her and a year imposed teaching assignment in front of her, she takes a final walk-through of her now closed dig that has a lot of people excited.  A dig that yielded a 1000 year old Druid burial.But unbeknownst to her, she's getting ready to meet that Druid.As well as the Welsh Warrior who has been riding her dreams...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N – due to the vagueness of some dates, I've had to fudge a bit here and there. Or guess.

**_Prologue_**

Somewhere in Ceredigion, Deheubarth, Cymru  
Medieval Wales  
Late Fall 1170 A.D.

 

The fog in the early morning air was particularly succulent.

While succulent wasn’t a term the warrior would normally use to define the miasma, it seemed to sum up the feelings he pondered over and over until his head throbbed. Things bothered him, worried him, kept him up all night.

No. Things didn’t bother him. She bothered him.

The mist swirled around his boots; gentle, lacy tendrils fingering its way through the lacings and up under his wrap. If this aggravated him, he didn’t show it. Instead he watched as the settlement slowly came to life in the early dawn. Low voices began to ebb from the covered openings of homes; to his left, a baby began to cry.

That one would be Deidre’s get. A girl rumored to have his eyes. Deidre started that rumor, fueled it with flame from aged wood, but both knew he had not lain with her since that drunken night 11 moons…

He shook his leonine head, to rid himself of cloying, unhealthy thoughts. No, best not think about it. He was seeking comfort; she gave him it to him. It dawned on him she might come from her hut, find him close by and this was enough to get him moving again. A faint glow came from the old Druid’s hut, so he headed towards the dwelling.

Aelhaearn looked up from the central fire as the animal skin that served as a door and screen was pushed aside. “Meaurig,” he spat in feigned ill humor, “you should learn to warn a man before walking into his home.” He threw something into the flames and watched the sparks rise towards the smoke hole. “You could have interrupted me in the throes of making some wench scream for joy.” He nodded to the not-quite woman crouched in the shadows. “Glenys, be a good lass and fetch four eggs from the henhouse. Two for me, two for our unexpected, rude guest.” 

“What? And be graced by the sight of your bony, pasty arse-cheeks, flapping in the air?” Meaurig leaned over and touched the girl on the shoulder as she slipped around him. “Get two eggs for yourself and put on a cloak. 'Tis chilly out.” Her mouth opened in protest. “If your grandfather as much as raises an eyebrow for you taking two eggs for yourself, tell me and I’ll read his entrails before the next battle!” Meaurig winked at her deviously, catching her grin as she sped through the entrance way.

“You’ll spoil her.” Aelhaearn removed the pot on the fire and replaced it with a flat sheet of hammered iron. 

“You already have.” Meaurig settled down to the man’s right. “It’s past time for her to be tending her own hearth.”

“I know it, you know it, but who will tend mine?” More dust was thrown into the coals, causing more sparks and colors to flare. A strange, unusual scent filled the air. “I wanted to talk to you-“

“No.”

“It’s past time you found someone to tend to your hearth.”

“No!!”

The old man sighed, sorrow etching his face. “Adaryn has been gone how many moons? Seasons?”

“Too many.” Meaurig whispered. “Five summer solstices,” he muttered a little louder. For a short time, the only sound was the wind slowing churning the dirt outside.  


“Meaurig,” the old man began gently, “the usurpers over the mountains won’t be returning her after all this time-“  


“Shh!” Meaurig stopped the sentence, the thought with a labored hiss and a chop of his hand. “I know she’s been gone too long and won’t be returned, if ever.” It was quiet in the dwelling for a few moments. “Even if she is returned... who knows where her mind will be.” Both of his hands dropped below his knees. “I don’t know who’s worse. Believing she is dead or the British soldiers, using her for sport. I pray she is dead, rather than...” His voice drifted off and he looked up, scrutinizing the Druid with the stare of a hawk. “Will we ever know peace?”

The old man picked up the thought. “They say the woman of the blacksmith in Mynyw was returned and he still can’t look at her without her screaming.”

Meaurig nodded sullenly. He knew Tudri and his woman; had seen her the last time they had traded. He didn’t recognize her, knotted hair and crazy, glazed eyes. She screamed at everything. The thought of his Adaryn, his little bird, being that way; he was ashamed that he admitted it out loud, he wished her dead than suffering the fate Tudri’s wife suffered. He realized Aelhaearn was still looking at him intently. “I’ll become bonded and married in my own time, old man! And not to Deidre” Aelhaearn started to chuckle, thin bony shoulders shaking. “Or Glenys!” 

It was a low growl and Aelhaearn raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to suggest you take her.” He frowned at the shapes being made by the smoke and reached for a sack made of moleskin. “Niclas, the tanner has an apprentice – Arvel – and they’ve been seen whispering in the shadows of the early evening.”

“Whispering,” Meaurig chuckled. “Such innocence.”

“Which is something you’re not.” The old man pointed with a gnarled finger, “and she is.” He shoved his hand back in the moleskin pouch and pulled out an aging pear. “He will be good for her, keep her fairly well.” He pointed again. “He’ll have a trade.” The Druid inspected the pear, clearly not liking what he saw. “You’ve come for a reason. Tell me quickly before Glenys returns.” He took a bite from the darkened, wrinkled fruit and made a face.

Meaurig inhaled once. “There is change in the air. I can’t sleep.”

“You want a sleeping powder?” The old man’s voice bordered on incredulous. “What am I?” he muttered under his breath, bits of sour pear splattering the front of his robe. “A witch? A wise woman?Next he’ll be asking for a potion to keep him erect!” he grunted more to himself than to the hulking figure squatting next to him.

“I heard that!” Meaurig threw his hands to the roots of his hair, pulling the long, dark locks away from his face. “Damn you. She keeps me awake.”

A smirk graced the Druid’s stone-carved features. “If she keeps you awake, I suggest you find a more peaceful sleeping partner.” The half eaten pear was thrown in the embers. Another scent added to the air…

“Not that. She keeps me awake. Her… voice.” For all of Meaurig’s height, he slumped low. “I’m hearing her. I hear cries and her whispering in my head.”

Aelhaearn munched on what mouthful of his pear was in his mouth, sucking the meat from between his teeth. “She comes.”

“So you say,” Meaurig snarled. “So you say. You say she will save us; rescue us from those that will encroach upon our lands and our beliefs. Our holy days are drying up, overtaken by the Christ followers. When will she come?”

The old man chewed the last bite slowly and dipped once again from the endless depths of the moleskin. He swirled the powders in the palm of his hand, spitting phlegm and masticated pear skins in it before throwing the mixture on the coals. “Owain is dead.” 

Meaurig's gasp was loud. “What? That cannot be!”

Aelhaearn nodded morosely. “Owain, King of all Wales is dead and Cristiana's sons scramble for position.” He took a long, crooked finger and drew in the ashes on the outer edge of the fire. “No one is safe until they have what they want.”

“Owain cannot be dead!” His eyes darted back and forth in the sparks of the fire. “How do you know this? There has been no messenger?” 

The Druid glanced at the warrior from the side of his sockets. “Question me? Have you known me to be wrong?” 

Meaurig shuddered. “Never.” He bowed his head. “If Owain is dead, Hywel will be king. It was decided long ago.” 

“And if Dafydd and Rhodri decide otherwise, who will enforce Owain's will? Certainly not his queen.” 

“There will be war. Brother against brother. Owain had too many sons.” He put his head in his hands. “And I have a woman in my head! When will she go away?” 

Aelhaearn's granddaughter returned, pushing the side of the animal skin away, eggs bundled gently in her skirt. As the breeze from the opened hide stirred up the smoke and embers, a mist of many hues rose from the fire.

“When the ribbons dance in the late fall sky, she will come.”


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 01  
Modern Day

“You threw that pen again, didn’t you?”

If Bronwyn hadn’t known the disembodied voice on the other line, hadn’t been friends since the cradle with the disembodied voice, hadn’t poured her heart and pain and hopes and dreams and spent how many countless nights building tents and Barbie Doll houses with the disembodied voice, her cursing would have been worse. Much worse.

“Damn,” she grunted.

Bronwyn Davidson was in a painful position. She re-cradled the phone between her shoulder and left ear, the old-fashioned phone cord stretched taut and the phone itself teetered precariously close to the edge of the nightstand, while the fingers of her right hand stretched into the darkening netherworld of under the hotel bed where the offensive pen – a mocking parting gift from that meandering, faithless, roving, self-serving, career ruining bastard of an ex-husband – lay just beyond the reach of her fingertips. She could feel the clip on it, just barely a hair beyond her grasp.

“No,” she lied, eyes now narrowed in vexation. “I’m stretching.”

“Exercise? You? Somehow, I doubt that!” Ashley’s voice was laced with an infectious humor that had graced her her entire life. Her mother told people the babe was born smiling. “C’mon, girlfriend! You didn’t call me so I can hear you sweat over the phone.”

“I didn’t call you. You called me! Remember? AHA!” There! Bronwyn’s fingertips grazed the edge of the pen and she nudged it towards her, before finally grasping it in her fist.

“I was returning your call, dingleberry! What time is it in Wales?”

“11 P.M. ACK!” Bronwyn pulled her arm out from under the bed, dust and decaying God knows what else flying up with it. Shaking the debris from her arm, she inadvertently flung the pen to the other side of the room, the tubular metal ringing as it ricocheted into the far corner and under the television cabinet. “DAMNITTOHELL!”

Ashley’s laughter was not comforting. “You threw it again, didn’t you?” 

“There’s dust in the carpet.” Bronwyn stood up, brushing filth from her already filthy khaki jeans. She now faced the dilemma of retrieving the pen from the other side of the room. For a moment, she contemplated the erstwhile pen and then decided for now, it was safe hiding beneath cheap furniture. A limp hank of dark auburn hair fell in her eyes. “I hate that man!” 

“What did Royce do to you now?” On the other side of the line, Ashley sounded as preoccupied and as far away as she really was. Thousands of miles.

“Not Royce.” Not her ex-husband, this very minute. “Alfred!” She blew at the offensive lock of hair, in an attempt of moving it and not putting her fingers in it.

There was a moment of silence. “Is this a new boyfriend?”

“NO!” Bronwyn decided that the pen needed to be retrieved so she could throw it again. She blew again at the hair in her eyes. “Alfred is in charge of the dig and Royce is a complete and total asshat and male chauvinist prick! Alfred is ignoring the situation!” She took a breath and blew again. “And he's a drunk!” Giving up, she grabbed a nondescript headband from the nightstand and shoved it on her head, effectively removing the hair from her eyes and pulling all of it from her face.

“I thought you were in charge of the dig?”

Bronwyn was ready to throw the phone by this point. Born and raised an archaeologist, by archaeologists, she was learning the hard way that she definitely married not only well beneath her, but also to a scheming, two-timing wretched excuse of a beautiful Adonis face. 

“I’m… in charge of the dig, but I’m not in charge of the dig.” Knowing a torrent was about to be unleashed, Ashley kept her silence, the fastest way to make sure her long-time friend unloaded what was eating her alive. “Alfred Llewyllen is in charge of the dig-“

“He used to be a professor at – “

“Yesssssss!” Bronwyn hissed. “In fact, he’s the head of archaeology and antiquities and he was Royce’s mentor in college and if he wasn’t such a flaming lush, I would suspect this entire thing was concocted by the both of them!”

“Alright,” the sound of a toddler crying in the background brought both friends back to a real time. “Now I’m lost. Hang on.” Even though her friend put her hand on the mouthpiece, Bronwyn clearly heard Ashley call to her husband to get the baby some arrowroot cookies and please call a pizza on his cell phone.

She was going to be a little while.

Bronwyn felt bad what she was doing to her and over the past few months had apologized profusely to her friend. Hard to believe how quickly her life had come to a crashing halt in the last year. If her parents were alive, things might be different, but…

If anyone could be accused of being born with a silver spoon in her mouth, it was Bronwyn. She was born immediately following a dig and taken to her first excavation in Scotland the summer she was four. She was too widely traveled at a young age, immune to the sight and smell of dead bodies thousands of years old and irritating her teachers at no end due to her own worldly travels. The last straw had come when an educator informed her parents at a teacher-parent conference that she was ‘too smart for her own good,’ and Bronwyn asked how that could possibly be? After all, wasn’t she at school to ‘get smart’? And besides, she preferred the word ‘precocious.’ At that point, she was yanked from school and her parents took over her schooling.

What resulted was what a tee shirt her parents bought her that she cherished: _Si vos can lego, vos es super erudio_ or how her now ex-husband referred to her as being the most over-educated human-being in the world and everything she specialized in was trivial.

_“Who cares what gutteral language the Picts spoke? How many dead languages do you speak?” Can you go to Lombardi’s and order pasta in that language?’_

“Look,” Bronwyn forced herself to breathe, “Royce’s parting shot to me was he would make sure I was never taken seriously in the archaeological world again. He wasn’t about to compete with me and didn’t want to have to ‘socialize with me’ in the same circles, therefore he preferred me out of the way, period.”

“In other words,” Ashley elaborated, “his new girlfriend-“

“Wife.”

“- didn’t want to be shadowed and stigmatized by your aura.” Ashley didn’t stop to take a breath. “He married her? Damn! I’m sorry. Is she even old enough to vote?”

Bronwyn picked up the base of the phone and pulled it as far as the cord attached to the wall would allow. She then got on the floor and crawled to the erstwhile television cabinet. “The ink wasn’t even dry on the divorce decree. She was waiting for him in the lobby, and they went straight across the hall to the judge.” She got on the floor and peered under the heavy, cheap piece of furniture. “And yes, but barely. I think her parents are relieved. I would be relieved.”

“Oh God,” Ashley’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

_Because I was ashamed, because I was horrified that he despised me that much, because I realized right then that he never loved me, that I realized he simply married me for the connections, because I couldn’t believe it…and then wrapped the pen and sent it to me, telling me he signed the divorce papers and his new marriage certificate with it and I could use it to grade papers because that’s all I was good for…_

And then the dreams started...

“He’s made his bed.” Both cords were now stretched taut, the coil in the receiver end, straight. She reached under the cabinet, fingers out-stretched. “He’s also kicked me in the teeth. He told everyone I copied his work, rode his coattails-“

“HE DIDN”T! If anything, he rode yours!”

“- I wasn’t to be trusted. He claims he divorced me to save his career. I’ve not been able to find work anywhere until the last minute this summer.” On the other end of the receiver, the voice screeched at decibels not reached by the human voice since Minnie Ripperton. “And it’s turned out to be the equivalent of a high school summer excavation camp!” Bronwyn reached down, cradling the receiver between her knees and inched closer to the television cabinet. Just an inch more…

For a few moments, there was almost silence, save the soft grunting of a woman on the floor, reaching for something to throw and the painful yodelings of her friend thousands of miles over the ocean screaming her frustration out at that which Bronwyn had been feeling for months.

Finally, the errant pen was retrieved and rather than throw it again, the archaeologist returned to the chair next to the small table that the telephone was sitting on. She crossed her legs, returned the receiver to her ear, now that there was no more yelling on the other side, and proceeded to tap the pen on the table, running it down her fingertips, before turning it over to repeat the process.

“Bronwyn?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” 

Ashley sighed heavily. “Look… how bad is the dig?” Ashley had worked excavations with Bronwyn and her parents as a teen, through college, before marrying a nice, stuffy English professor named George and settling down with a nice, safe, history teaching job in a moderately sized college in a moderate sized college town down in the Midwest of the States. Despite her nice, safe, stuffy academic life, she knew first hand the difference between a ‘good’ dig and a bad one.

“Bad.”

“How bad?”

Bronwyn tapped the pen, point first, end second, point again… “The university Albert is employed at sponsors summers digs for the local schools.”

“And?” 

Bronwyn was focusing on the pen, the way it slipped through her fingers, almost sensuous in its movement. For not the first time, she noted it was a Cross pen, gold, and not cheap, with Royce’s initials engraved at the end. It was a not so subtle reminder of who gave her her cross to bear. “And there are several different kinds…” she let her voice trail.

“Bronwyn, I would think this would be a wonderfully easy experience for you. Teaching others-“

“Well, like I said there are several different kinds, ranging from digs for the college student seriously considering a career in archaeology to…” the pen came to a halt, “inexperienced summer camps for wannabe delinquents whose parents are trying to get them out of their hair and out of the house for the day.”

There was a hush.

“Delinquents?” Bronwyn barely heard her.

“Yes. Delinquents. As in useless wastes of oxygen, destined for a career in a body bag. Useless as in that was one wad your daddy should have shot in the washcloth….”

“Oh, really Bronwyn, it can’t be that bad…”

“Bad?” The pen went flying, Bronwyn standing up in order to have a full, unrestrained airflow through her lungs. She didn’t bother to watch where it landed and didn’t really care at that moment. “Most of them have an eye, a talent or a desire, but I had a 16 year old idiot step in a grave today. That grave was the most significant find we found in that village. After digging up foundations and tools and fire pits, we found a honest to God grave with all of the hand-carved gods and Druidic burial finery and that wanker not only stepped in it, he planted his fat assed foot through the corpse’s hand!”

“Ew!”

“And laughed about it!” Bronwyn dropped her head in her freehand, the headache that had been threatening for hours, now bursting forth. She spied her discarded knapsack on the table and cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, began to dig earnestly for the aspirin bottle. “He and his stupid little cronies laughed about it.”

“And what did you do?”

_There!_ She popped the lid and tapped two of the pills into her hand. “I was not at my most diplomatic.” After a quick second thought, she shook out a third. She popped them in her mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste. She sat back down.

“I would imagine not. Hang on-“ This time Ashley didn’t bother to cover the receiver. “George! Keep an ear out for the doorbell, make sure Sydney isn’t playing in the dog bowl or the toilet and wait until you hear what Bronwyn’s students did! Oh, and bring me my briefcase. Thank you, you are such a love what would I do without you-“

Bronwyn rolled her eyes at the obvious endearment. The table was spread with maps, papers, notes from the dig. She reached for the blunt pencil and began to repeat the nervous process of tapping and turning. “I sent them home.” She waited a moment before clarifying. “I sent them home and told them to grow a set before they come back.”

There was the sound of muffled laughter. “You didn’t.”

“I did!” The pencil hit the table with such force, it snapped, leaving a leaded scratch in the surface. Great! Just what I need! Something additional I’ll probably have to pay for. Bronwyn wet her finger and began to rub the spot. “I did and I won’t apologize.”

“I wouldn’t either.” There was a rustling of papers. Obviously darling wonderful perfect George had brought Ashley’s briefcase. “Ah! Here’s what I was looking for…”

“What were you looking for?” Bronwyn’s voice was strained; peeved that she didn’t have 100% of her friend’s attention.

“Have you considered going into academia?”

“What?”

“Look, I kno-“

“That’s exactly what His Royal I’m so Gorgeous and Well Hung that Every Woman Who Can Smell My Cologne Wants Me Highness wants me to do. Die and go teach!”

“Bronwyn? Will you let me finish?” Ashley took the scant nano second of silence as a ‘yes’… “Right now, Royce has you backed in a corner. He’s the Wonder Boy of British Archaeology and even though he received all of his wonderful ideas from you, he’s The Face. In a year or two, no one will be paying attention to him, he’ll get comfortable and who knows, he might stumble huge and make a mistake-“

“Damn straight, he’ll screw up! He hires for the wrong reasons! He hired that bimbo to be his personal secretary. Her daddy has money! I hired the real workers!”

“- and it will damage his reputation – exactly! Bottom line is you can make a living, do some research on sites and legends, you know how you hate doing that because you’re pressed for time. Use your contacts, your parents contacts, to regroup, re-situated. Find a new starting point, a new area of archaeological expertise. You know, you’ve not taken a break since their plane went down! Take time for yourself. His star will crash and burn and you’ll step up to the plate, refreshed renewed, and looking better than ever!”

Bronwyn looked down at her more than ample hips. “Are you saying I need to go on a diet?”

There was a painful pause. “Have you gained more weight?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “I might have gone up a dress size… or two…”

“BRONWYN!” Ashley’s outrage was obvious. “You are already a diabetic waiting to happen! It runs in your family!”

“So does dementia!” she retorted! “What was I supposed to do? Royce left me for Miss Teenaged Bubble headed blonde Cheese whatever her family does and my only friends were the owners of Iggy’s Ice Cream Parlor.”

“Oh, Bronwyn…”

“I know and don’t feed me that.” She inhaled sharply. “Look, I’ve been really good about eating healthier the last couple of weeks, but it goes on easier than it comes off.”

“I know.” There was a lot of noise over the line. Apparently, the pizza had arrived and Sydney was crawling after George’s rather friendly and patient Chocolate Labrador, Molly. “Believe me, I know. Listen, I hate to cut you off, but I need to go. There are a few positions open here at the college; they would kill to have a well-known archaeologist teaching dead and ancient languages and history. Shoot, I’m sure there are some local digs here-“

“American Indian most likely and they have a complete hairy when you touch something that might look like them.” The tone was bored, rattled off by rote memory. “Remember the mummy in the Colombia River in Washington State? How many years did that body remain on ice while they figured out who he belonged to?” Bronwyn listened for the grinding teeth.

“Whatever! I’m grasping at straws here for you! Regardless, you could probably juggle both without thinking twice. It would keep you busy, keep you sane and you could do what we talked about.”

Yeah, and you could monitor my eating habits and try to find me a sweet, stuffy, but grounded natty math professor, just like you have! Thanks, but no thanks.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Think about it.”

“I will.”

“But not forever. Like in the next week or two.”

“I will.”

“I love you I gotta go. I’ll email these to you tonight. Call me tomorrow. At the office. Bye.” The sudden sound of the disconnected buzzing only made Bronwyn’s headache worse.

The desire to just crawl in bed was over-powering and Bronwyn stripped down to nothing, before crawling between the cheap sheets of her rented bed.

And prayed the warrior disturbing her dreams would take the night off.

~*~

Bronwyn’s migraine fared no better the following day. While her erstwhile poor excuse of a digger and his buddies didn’t show up the next day, her ex husband did.

The dig had shaped out nicely, despite her future criminals and the small group that remained, Bronwyn was rather proud of. It wasn’t unusual for newbies to freak at the site of a dead body, no matter how old. Lucky for her, only Layla behaved squeamishly, so she was happily cataloging other parts of the site. Stakes were being put down in a grid and her young archaeologists were meticulously listing, photographing, and numbering everything. The small site was taken down several feet so the original earthen foundations were well established. The surrounding unexcavated areas had been staked out, spray-painted where borrowed equipment and old aerial photographs showed there could possibly be more.

“I heard you were here.” Royce’s voice came from nowhere. Bronwyn looked up over her shoulder through a curtain of loosed red hair to see his sky-blue eyes raking the dig in the most obscene way possible. “My, how low you have fallen.”

Bronwyn was stretched out on the ground, arms dangling down in the grave Colin had desecrated the day before. He had seriously damaged the body, but the burial artifacts were still intact as well as much of the burial vestments. She gently pulled the leather from the arm, wincing at the crackling and the obvious footprint pressed in the material. She never looked up. “I’m busy. Go away.” She gently pressed a small iron stake in the dirt on the side of the grave in order to tie a strand of twine to it later for graphing.

“What an experienced group you have working with you. They’ve have what? Three? Four weeks under the belt?”

“Seven,” Bronwyn mumbled. “Do you mind? I’m really busy here-“

“What is it you are digging in? Is that a grave?”

“No, it’s your ass,” Bronwyn muttered under her breath. “Look,” she spoke up louder, in order to be heard, “if you’ve just come to gloat, leave already. Don't you have a site of your own?”

“Is that a footprint?” Royce’s voice could be heard over the digging, carrying in the wind like pollen in spring. “My Gawd, it looks like someone stepped on the body! What kind of show are you running here, Bronny?” He was leaning over his ex wife in order to peer into the grave. 

With reflexes Bronwyn didn’t even realized she had, she jumped up, the back of her head connecting solidly with Royce’s nose. Royce staggered backwards, his hands going to the injured appendage, Bronwyn’s hand going to the back of her head. “You don’t call me that!” she yelled. The hand NOT holding the back of her head gestured and stabbed wildly, effectively forcing her ex husband to retreat. “You lost all rights to call me that!” The entire dig came to a halt, every one staring at the battling archaeologists. “Go fuck up your own dig. Leave me and mine alone! Charles!” she jutted her chin at the large, hulking rugby player looking teen gaping nearby, “Escort this asswipe to his car. If he gives you problems,” she raked Royce’s lean form with a jaundiced eye, “carry him in the most uncomfortable way possible.”

Royce hand was still over his nose, blood now slowly leaking between his fingers. “Yew don hab tew be tho nahthy.”

“Nasty?” Bronwyn hissed. “You haven’t begun to SEE nasty!”

Royce turned away, glaring at her over his shoulder. “Awrigh, awrigh! Ahm goin!” Suddenly, he turned back, leaning close. “But yew bettah wath yerthelf! Yer pithin ahff tew maneh peepehl!”

“Must I ask Charles to haul you out by the nose?” Teenaged giggling could be heard on the wind. She stared at his retreating back both fists now white-knuckled and clenched by her sides. “Wait, but that would hurt!” she yelled. “You would LIKE THAT!!” Royce shot her a death look over his shoulder, blood visibly dripping. By now, she was bouncing on her toes, her white-knuckled fists punctuating each word by her side. “Hey Royce! Does your new wife know you liked to be spanked? Should I gift-wrap the pink paddle and fuzzy handcuffs? I no longer have any use for them!” By now, her students were guffawing and pointing at the furious archaeologist who couldn’t get his car started fast enough. Finally, it cranked and he backed the car out of the site.

Bronwyn watched, smiling evilly until there was nothing left but dust, before turning back to the gravesite. Her grin dropped from her face immediately. She almost ran into the teen standing guard. She pointed to the opposite side of the grave. “Go over there and lay down. I want to petition off the grave, so we can take pictures and take inventory before we start removing the burial items.”

“Do you really have pink fuzzy handcuffs, Professor Davidson?” He jumped over and positioned himself across from the woman.

“No, Charles.” The boy actually looked disappointed. “They’re purple.” Muffled laughter bubbled up from his chest. Bronwyn pulled a skein of twine from her pocket and began to unroll a goodly length. She resumed her previous position on the ground and began to wrap the twine around the hook of the stake. When she finished, she reached across the grave and handed Charles the twine. “Tie it like this and then cut it with your pocket knife.” She watched as he followed her instructions before motioning him to scoot down to the next set of stakes. “Uhm… what you heard… what I said…”

“Wasn’t nice.” Charles finished for her, never looking up from his work. “No one will blame you.” He tied off the twine and handed the ball to her. “I mean I don’t blame you.” Bronwyn took the roll and proceeded to wrap the hook. “Professor?” Charles was peering closely into the grave. “Did you see this?”

Bronwyn couldn’t see from her angle, so she quickly tied off the tie and maneuvered over to the teen’s side. “Move over.” She waited for him to make room, before settling down next to him. “Oh my God… what is it?” Bronwyn levered herself over the grave, her head now down in the gravesite. Her hair was pooled down in the dirt as she peered closer at the almost hidden object. “Bring me the camera,” she instructed Charles. She heard him get up, particles of dirt and dust disturbed by his rising clattered down in the grave and into Bronwyn’s face and hair.

The 1000-year-old body was fairly well preserved. It was apparent when they unearthed him, the man was an important and beloved figure to the village; a priest or holy man of sorts, dressed in elaborate finery. The entire grave was covered with a heavy, large sewn piece of animal hide, very unusual for the area and time period. Bronwyn had never seen the like and originally noted in her notebook to research to see if other graves in the area had reported anything similar. Searches so far had yielded nothing. Two days before, with Alfred standing watch, they had gently lifted the hide covering to expose the grave, staking down a heavy tarp at night to keep it protected.

Protected until that idiot stepped in it.

Bronwyn peered closer. One of the holy man’s arms were positioned at his side and tucked under his hand, almost under his lower hip, was what looked to be a decorated pouch made of an indiscernible animal hide. “Also, bring me the cell phone. I need to call Alfred.”

~*~

“This is extraordinary, Bronwyn.” Alfred sensed her stiffening at the familiarity and sighed inwardly. He returned his attention to the body and the bag under the man’s hand. “Typically, one only finds this sort of detail with a member of royalty or someone very powerful.” Both professors lay prone on the ground, their heads close together down in the grave, oblivious to the smell of earth that hadn’t been disturbed in centuries. “ Have we dated this village and this grave yet?”

Bronwyn sneezed, the dust tickling her nose. “Between 1100 to 1200 A.D. thereabouts. Later part, I’m inclined to think.” She sneezed again.

Alfred Llewyllen was the stereotypical aging professor. Tall and skeletal lean, his slept-in looking, rumbled clothing hung on him with a ratty abandon only a life-long bachelor who lived in his study could only achieve. Even down in a grave with a rotting body, Bronwyn could smell old pipe tobacco and Ball’s Whiskey on his clothing. The few white hairs on his head, stood out at odd angles, and Bronwyn heard her budding archaeologists whispering on more than one occasion musing if the old man actually slept in his clothes or if he ever bathed.

She sneezed a third time.

Alfred looked up over his shoulder to the gorilla standing over him, trying to peer down in hole. “Do you mind? I can’t see.” He was oblivious to the teen’s fleeting furious look. ‘Look here. Go to – Bronwyn, where do you keep your masks? –“ There was murmuring from below the earth, “Right, go to Dr. Davidson’s backpack and bring back an air filter mask. It’s quite dusty down here.” He watched the teen amble off before returning his attention to the grave. “I say, Bronwyn, I don’t know how you put up with-“

“You assigned them to me, remember?” Bronwyn’s tone was not so gentle. “Their parents paid for the summer internship. And watch how you talk to them, especially that one.” Eyes as brown as the dirt they were laying in raked the elderly professor with derision. “He’s the best one I have and smarter than a whip. Don’t let the packaging fool you. He could make a name for himself with the right backing.” It was quiet while they waited. Finally, an air filter mask lowered itself out of appearing thin air and she put it to her face. “Thank you, Charles.” She turned back to Alfred, hissing, “I plan to make sure he gets it, if he’s interested.”

“You always had a good eye.” Alfred murmured, causing her to jerk in surprise. “Except once. And that one, I’m sorry for.” The aging professor pulled himself up and dusted his hands and clothing off. “I need to contact the powers that be to have the body exhumed from the grave. As well as your…” and with this, his bloodshot eyes disparagingly raked over the young students, searching for the right words. They didn’t come out. “… motley crew-“ gasps of outrage, “-have done, we will need professionals to exhume the body. This has become a much more important find than any at the university anticipated.” There was angry chittering between the students.

Bronwyn was picking herself from the earth, oblivious to the dirt ground into her jeans. The filter mask was hastily stuffed in her back pocket and two of her students, including the gorilla, were nattering in her ear. She was nodding in agreement. “Alfred, as little as you seem to think of them, they’ve come a long way in the past weeks and I would like them to help as much as possible if they are inclined.” There were murmurs of agreement from the gallery.

_Ah. She was going to fight for the little mudruts. Good._ Alfred had been afraid that the divorce might have destroyed that indomitable spirit and fire he recalled so vividly. He hoped the experience would make her stronger and she was going to need that strength to draw from before it was over. “Quite right, quite right.” The art of sounding distracted and bored was just that: an art, one he practiced for years. “We can discuss that.” He looked up at the students. “Would you like that?” There were enthusiastic nods of agreement. “Very good, then.” He looked up at the sky and squinted at the not yet setting sun. “I think I will get a room here at the inn, make some phone calls. Professor Davidson, if you would be so kind as to close up the shop a bit early for the evening, I would be most pleased to take you to dinner to discuss things.”

~*~

Alfred chose a restaurant he was familiar with in Pemberton, a larger town about 30 minutes from the small hamlet where Bronwyn’s dig was located. Alfred stated on the pretense the food was superior to the home fare at the cheap motel where she and now he were staying, but Bronwyn suspected it was away from the locals, away from the families of her students, who would listen in. gossip, and pry. It also was home of a rugby stadium and she suspected the old man rather enjoyed the rough sport.

And it was early. There were a few shops nearby and the female in Bronwyn itched to get out. There was a turquoise peasant type dress in the window across the street that just might be a fun and colorful addition to her meager, khaki colored wardrobe. If she could sit through this dinner with Alfred and get it over quickly-

“I always liked you.” Alfred’s voice cut through her reverie and brought her back to the present. “Always thought you were the brightest student to cross my path.”

“What?” Bronwyn blinked.

Alfred sighed. Conversation with women always made him nervous. He talked to dead bodies with more ease. He cleared his throat uneasily. “I left a message with the Royal Antiquities Department. He called me back before I met up with you here. They have agreed to allow a team from the university to oversea the exhumation and I’ve contacted a few people I think will work patiently with your charges.”

“Thank you.”

Salads arrived and the two waited until the waiter completed his methodical round of peppering and refilling.

“I had to pull quite a few strings to allow that.”

Bronwyn speared a cherry tomato. “I realize that,” she admitted reluctantly. “and I appreciate it.” Alfred watched as she inspected the round fruit before the tomato disappeared into her mouth. He cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. “Professor Llewyllen, I realize they appear to be a…a…” she stumbled over her words, “… a…”

“Motley crew.”

Bronwyn colored at that, tamped down anger evident. “They are anything but.”

“You’ve complained vigorously to me about the serious lack of quality in the recent past,” Alfred replied drolly. For all intents and purposes, all of his attention and his entire life rested on the oil and vinegar drenched lettuce impaled on his salad fork.

“Yes, I know, but it was a select few that made it difficult.” Bronwyn was aware that her voice tended to carry and so her whisper made it difficult for the elderly professor to hear.

“The one who stepped in the grave and his friends.” Bronwyn nodded morosely. “Pity that. Nasty business that one and it’s not over, I guarantee.”

“I rather suspect such.” 

Alfred chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me about the ones left.”

Bronwyn set her fork down. “Charles, the one you barked at for blocking your sun, has an amazing eye and notices small things out of place. He was the one who suspected there was something different around the area where the gravesite is was found and he was also the one who noticed the unusual pouch tucked under the body.” Bronwyn smiled in retrospect. “He decided a more recent at an angle aerial look would help, so he took his camera and climbed a tree.”

“Really?”

Bronwyn rambled on, oblivious that Alfred and set his fork down, his attention completely riveted to her story. “His father is a logger and he showed up the next morning with a tree strap. He was up with the camera before I could holler at him to come down. We put the chip in my laptop and…” she stopped suddenly, embarrassed by her own enthusiasm. “Moire is an artist. She sketches layouts, landscape and she’s fast. Layla has the most delicate hand with a brush and digging out areas-“ she stopped suddenly. “You didn’t bring me to dinner to listen to me wax eloquently about my charges.”

Alfred wiped his mouth and nodded to the hovering waiter to remove their salad plates. “No, I did not, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.” He laid his napkin to the side. “You are as excited about this dig as you were when you were 12 and in Mynyw with your parents.” Bronwyn’s jaw dropped. “You might not remember me, but I remember you! I had more hair then.”

“They were digging in Ceredigion… no… Brycheiniog. We took a boat, rather than fly that year… there was a party-“

“Yes!” Alfred was delighted she remembered, “The hostess was most put out your esteemed parents brought their runny-nosed brat to her stuffy, boring party, but you were delightful! I rather think the old biddy was jealous.” They waited for dinner to be set before them. “Her husband paid more attention to you that night than he had her in years!”

Bronwyn grinned. “She was stupid. She didn’t know the difference between Branwen and Gwenllian.”

“No,” Alfred chuckled. “She wouldn’t know the difference between a woman who grieved herself to death over the destruction of two countries over her rescue and a woman who was put to death for leading an army on behalf of her people. She wouldn’t know and she didn’t care.” He smirked for a moment. “She was a ruddy bloody arse of a woman. Bronwyn,” he went from a jovial tone to a more serious one, “you were fiery then. I prayed you retained that fire after all this… unpleasantness and it appears you have. That is a good thing.”

Bronwyn squashed her softer feelings. She didn’t remember him, but she remembered the over-dressed, over-made-up self-absorbed woman. “Alfred. Stop beating around the bush. What do you want? I’m certain it wasn’t to reminisce about a rather forgettable party hosted by a preening peacock!”

“You are right, of course.” Alfred smiled ruefully. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Try Royce.”

Alfred’s eyes fell, very ashamed. “No. I’ll not start there, but you need to understand I’m not your enemy.”

“But Royce-“

“Damn Royce!” Alfred’s voice rose and the low-grade noise in the entire restaurant came to a halt as every eye turned to the twosome. “Damn him and damn him again! Royce is a prick and not worth your energy!” he hissed. “He is a lazy arse who rode on the backs of those who were mesmerized by his face.” Alfred’s own face was a bright shade of red. “He is indolent, careless, undisciplined… don’t get me wrong,” his fork raised, stabbing itself in Bronwyn’s face causing her to lean back in alarm. “He is bright and knows his history, but he has no work ethic. He’s never had to have one, never been forced to have one. He won’t know where to begin to start.” He attacked his food with vigor.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Alfred didn’t look up. “Because I thought surely you saw through him,” he muttered petulantly, chewing on his lamb. “It didn’t dawn on me you were hurting.”

“Hurting?” Bronwyn was incredulous. “I wasn’t hurting, I was grieving!” She held both eating utensils in each white-knuckled hand, propped on the table. “I was grieving!” She looked down at her untouched plate, as if at a loss where to begin; the meat or the vegetable. “I was alone… bereft…” she whispered.

Alfred jerked, as if stabbed. “It didn’t dawn on me until it was too late you were missing your family, trying to fill a void. Bronwyn, I’m not changing the subject, but your parents specialty was ancient Britain and Ireland. Where on earth were they going that their plane would go down in the Himalayas?”

Bronwyn made a great show of removing the bones in her fish. “Yeti,” she inhaled.

“What? Did you say-”

“The Yeti!” she hissed. “My mother was fascinated with the Yeti and Father promised her for years they would spend a year searching the Himalayas and spending time with the natives.” She took a bite and still bit into a bone. She spit it into her fingers. “Mother had been researching for years, making notes and copies. In fact, I have a copy of her notes back at Little Cymru,” referring to her family’s estate in Kentucky. “There are copies of everything, actually.”

“Your parents were chasing the Abominable Snowman?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “Mother preferred the term ‘Yeti.’” She smiled fondly. “They planned that trip for years. Their first one without me since I was knee-high.” She laid her eating utensils down gently, her interest in her fish waning. “It was to have been like a second honeymoon. They were so devoted to each other.”

“They definitely had something very special.” Alfred nervously cleared his throat.. “Bronwyn, as I said before, I’m not your enemy.”

“So, you said.”

“I realize my previous connection with Royce might make you uncomfortable,” he continued on, “but I know him for what he is.” He leaned forward. “I’m pushing to have as much done on this little dig as quickly as possible, with as much work done with your young students, in order to show its importance as an historical site, as well your competence as a prominent archaeologist, as well as your guts and forbearance with inexperienced scholars. You need to know that Royce’s dig isn’t coming up with much and his patience is diminishing.”

Bronwyn motioned to have her plate removed and turned her cup over for coffee. “I’m not interested in Royce’s dig.” 

“You should be.” Alfred motioned for tea. “Considering many things, you very well should be. It is near the coast, close to Llanelli. “

Bronwyn was stirring milk into her coffee. Her eyes never rose, her concentration on the swirls the milk made in her cup. “I never understood the Brits hatred of a nice cup of coffee,” she murmured. Finally her eyes rose. “Llanelli would be possible launch point for Madoc.”

“I never understood you Yanks love of coffee.” Alfred jovially retorted. “I know you have an interest in Madoc.”

Bronwyn snorted derisively. “That’s an understatement.”

Alfred smiled an almost evil smile. He had her. “You and your Madoc are kin to your mother and her Yeti. I feel sorry for your father.”

“And why?”

“Living with the Davidson women and their crazy legends. Abominable snowmen and wandering seafarers. ”

Bronwyn snorted with humor, this time. “Crazy legends or not, I’m still not interested in Royce’s dig.”

“You should be.”

Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. Why should I be so interested in a dig site that is yielding nothing?”

Alfred set down his now empty teacup and lifted a finger. “One, because aerial photographs and old writings say there should be something there. Two,” a second finger raised, “because Royce bent over and went out of his way to make sure he was awarded that site, rather than you. And three...”

“Yes?” 

A third finger pointed up, laying with the previous two digits. “Three, because Royce has begun to make inquiries to have you removed from your dig. He made the comment to the fellows at the university that you are incompetent and he would like to take over.” 

 

“Incompetent? Me?”

 

“Seems a valuable artifact was damaged on your watch.”

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N Sorry for the delay. I was laid waste by a nasty stomach virus for 4 days and needless to say, no writing was done. Hopefully, I can get back on track quickly.

**** __

_**When the Ribbons Dance** _

****__

_**Chapter 02** _

“Royce? Royce wants your dig?” The static over the line that evening was horrific and Bronwyn strained to hear. The internet connection in this little town was next to nothing and Skyping was impossible. “Why? And who is Madoc?”

The pen was sitting on the nightstand and Bronwyn glared at it as if all the evils of the world – or at least the evils of _her_ world - could be laid on it’s slender column. “Royce’s dig is yielding nothing and it should be coming up roses. Mine should be coughing up splintered pot shards and buried joints and yet yielded this way cool dead person who has been dead for centuries. Therefore, he wants it.” She exhaled loudly. “And Madoc is a Welsh Prince.”

“I guess swapping digs is out of the question.” 

Bronwyn pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the handheld, aghast. “You did not just sugges-“

“I’m TEASING! It was a joke!” Ashley was obviously exasperated. “Girlfriend, you are stressed!”

“I know.”

“And a dig normally energizes you.”

“I know.”

There was clicking on the other end. Ashley was obviously playing on her computer. “Oh! I’ve got an email from the head of the anthropology department. I gave him your resume.” Bronwyn inwardly groaned. “He’s quite impressed and would like to talk to you as soon as possible. He says he heard of your parents.” More tapping. “He wants your cell phone and email addy. He called the number on the resume and it went straight to your answering machine at Little Cymru. Where you’re not at, by the way.” There was more indiscernible noise in the background. “So, what excuse is Royce using to snatch your dig?”

The desire to retrieve the pen was overwhelming and Bronwyn stood up and turned her back to it. She gazed out the window of her motel room, a view consisting of the road and a single car driving slowly up the way. “My student stepping in the grave and damaging the body.”

Ashley let out a low whistle. “Oh yeah, you told me about that. That’s a pretty strong reason.”

“Yeah.” Bronwyn cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder and watched the lone car’s taillights turn the corner. “Alfred said he doesn’t stand a chance, but he’s going to yell and I should expect more than a few people looking over my shoulder. Great, just what I need. It would be just like him to wander over and take potshots again. Or worse, send his new bride-” that was spat sarcastically, “- over to see if I need help.”

There was the crackling of paper and the low drone of swearing over the line. “I swear, school hasn’t started and I already have a ton of paperwork.” Ashley’s voice hissed. “Where did I ever get the idea that being a professor was an easy job?”

“Not a clue.”

“How is dear old Alfred?”

Bronwyn let her mind wander back to the dinner she shared earlier with the aging professor. “Funny you should ask.” Quickly, she related the odd conversation with her friend. “I don’t get it,” she concluded. “I don’t trust him, but I don’t distrust him.” She inhaled sharply through her nose. “I hate fence-sitters.”

“Yeah. You want to push them. Make up your mind already!” More tapping. “Too bad he couldn’t have said something about Royce sooner.”

“I probably wouldn’t have paid attention.”

Thousands of miles away, Ashley leaned in the phone. Bronwyn sounded distracted, distanced and not by the miles. She worried about her friend and renewed her determination to get her home and rerooted. She changed the subject. “So, tell me about Madoc. I’m looking him up and not finding a whole lot. Actually, I’m finding a whole lot of nothing!” 

Bronwyn thought for a moment, trying to get her bearings. “Madoc was at one time a prince of Wales.”

“Bronwyn, there was no King Madoc of England!” 

Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “Ashley…”

More tapping. “I know, I know. I’m not the walking history book you are! Refresh my memory. Geez. How big is this class anyway?” Ashley was clearly multi-tasking, something Bronwyn had a difficult time doing off the field. “I deserve a full professorship with this class load…. Bronwyn? C’mon. Quick history lesson.”

“Quick history lesson.” Bronwyn was wishing the pen was in her fingers. “Back in pre-Christian Western Europe, children, regardless of legitimacy, were created and treated equal.”

“So, it didn’t matter what side of the blanket they were born on.”

“Not only that, they all got equal shares when it came time to inherit. That’s why there is a Germany and a France. Charlemagne controlled the majority of Western Europe He had two grandsons that actually went to war over who would be king.”

“I remember that!” Ashley wasn’t tapping on her computer anymore. “The treaty... the treaty...”

“The Treaty of Verdun in 843.”

“Yeah! Dividing the territory was written in German and French for both sides!” 

“Exactly.” Bronwyn turned and focused on the pen on the other side of the room. “It also didn’t matter how many women gave birth. Legit. Illegit. Didn’t matter.”

“I bet that caused problems if the King was really randy!”

“You have no idea.” Visions of Henry the First ran through Bronwyn’s mind. _That boy had more acknowledged illegitimate children and still left no male heir, causing one of the bloodiest civil wars in England’s history between his daughter and nephew._ She began to pace a small trail, her normally fidgeting hand carrying the old-fashioned telephone base cradled loosely in the tips of two fingers.

“There was a time or two things were tense and at this time, things were pretty tense. Owain, King of Gwynedd had several sons by several women, including several by his first wife and several by his Christian Queen, Christina… or Christiant, who some would say was quite the bitch.” Bronwyn reached the end of the trail and switched directions, still carrying the base of the phone with her. “According to legend, Madoc-“

“Who I guess wasn’t one of Queen Bitchtina’s?”

Bronwyn giggled. “No. He wasn’t and that was the problem. According to legend, he heard a rumor that one of his half brothers intended to do away with him upon his father’s death or close to so he could take Madoc's share of inheritance. Madoc, for some unknown reason, wasn’t ready to die and didn’t seem to think what he would inherit was worth it, so he decided to relocate without leaving a forwarding address.”

Clicking started up again. “So, what’s the big conspiracy? He went underground. He went to England, France…”

“No. He didn’t go underground. According to legend, he went to America.”

“Madoc sailed with Christopher Columbus?”

Bronwyn smacked herself in the head. “No. This was in 1170. A few hundred years before Chris!” 

Bronwyn could hear her friend’s mental gears clicking. “Ooooh. I get it! 1170! There’s no proof he arrived!”

“Well, there were remains of what looked like Welsh-shaped conical boats found above the mouth of the Mississippi as well as the strange fact that several tribes of Indians west of the Ohio Valley have rather Welsh sounding words.”

There was silence on the other end. “Is there anything in writing? Legends?”

“Not a word. On either side.”

“Oooooooh…and right now-“

“I’m in the land of Madoc.” There was a long, drawn-out silence before Bronwyn continued. “And that dig Royce is in charge of could very well have been the departure point if legend is fact.”

“OH MY GAWD!” 

Bronwyn jumped at the sudden impact against her eardrums. “Ow!”

“I’m sorry.” Ashley’s voice softened a bit. “That’s why Royce fought to keep you out of that dig!”

“That thought crossed my mind.” She winced again, changing the receiver to her other ear and rubbed the injured one.

“And I have a repeating student. Pain in the ass. Sorry. Saw the one and realized the other at the same time.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“I’ll bet…” Ashley’s voice to a conspirator’s whisper, “you’d give your eye teeth for that dig.”

Bronwyn stopped in mid-stride. “Actually, I hadn’t thought it about since we found our body.”

“Ooo yeah. You do have that. And Royce is all jealous of it. Serves him right. You go, girlfriend!”

“Ashley,” Bronwyn groaned, pacing beginning again, “Just how old are you again?” 

“Same age as you,” she giggled, amid the overseas static. “29. And it looks as if I’ll get my doctorate by the end of this semester, so you have to be here for that!”

Bronwyn gasped. She had completely forgotten that Ashley had been slowly trudging away on her doctorate in American Women’s Literature. Between her marriage, the baby, working…

“Yeah yeah and I heard you gasp, meaning it slipped your mind, not that I blame you or am upset, but Bronny, we need to get you home.” 

“Yes, yes, you want me to talk to the department head about a job.”

Her friend’s voice dropped to a quiet plea. “You’ve not stopped or slowed down since your parents plane went down. And you’ve had that nasty divorce and the stress with everything. I’m worried about you. You need to rest.” There was a pause. “Not only that, there’s another problem.”

Bronwyn sank into the chair, willing the conversation to end soon. “And that would be?”

“Girl, we need to get you home,” Ashley chirped. “You’re sounding just like one of those hoity toity English professors!”

~*~

Bronwyn was glad the day was sunny and fairly warm. _A great day to exhume a body!_ All of her students – with the exception of Colin and his cronies – expressed a desire to help and watch. Charles had brought his digital video camera, as did Moire. That one was like a butterfly, flitting here and there, wearing outrageously bright colored blouses and hair feathers. No matter how bad things were, she could always make the group smile. On more than one occasion, she lifted Bronwyn even at her most morose.

Alfred was there, along with several members of the staff at the university. Bronwyn spoke to them when they arrived; she knew most of them and was on on friendly terms with them. 

“Aye, Bronwyn!” Patrice, with her pale eyes, mousy hair, and plain looks hid a keen intelligence that surpassed most Bronwyn encountered. “The lads managed to get a cloth under the body. There is a bier, of all things, an' it lifted him off the ground! We should be to hoist it with little difficulty. D’ye think your bruiser could help wit' the lifting?” She leaned in so her whispering wouldn’t be overheard. “He’s pestering Alfred and we need to give him something to do.”

Bronwyn’s eyes searched and found Charles trying to stay out of the way, but not doing a good job. He appeared to have adhered himself to Alfred and was peppering him with questions. She grinned broadly. “Ah, leave him for awhile. It will do Alfred good.” 

The morning flew by quickly, with the old Druid coming out of his grave easier than expected, with no additional damage to the body. As the old man was lifted, Bronwyn was pleasantly surprised and pleased to see other items buried with the old man. Charles was poking Alfred in the ribs. “How much y'wanna bet we find mistletoe in that pouch?” His video camera was down, thinking perhaps his work was done.

“How much y'wanna bet we shut dis joke down?” Everyone looked up to see Colin and an older, bigger version of Colin standing at the outside of the crowd. Colin Senior had a broken nose, similar to his son's, only lying on the other side of his face. The scowls were identical and in the case of the elder, seemed permanent. 

Bronwyn stepped around the crew and made her way towards the Colins. Out of the side of her eye, she saw Charles turn his video camera back on, as well as several other members of the dig, pulling out cells and tablets. 

“Shut down my dig, you say?” Bronwyn was smiling. “On what grounds?” 

Colin Sr. puffed up. “Why, onna grounds y' treated m'son wif disrespect for starters.” 

“I don't suppose he told you that he desecrated a grave?” 

“Wot?” Colin Jr scoffed. “That old skeleton?” 

“That old skeleton might be your ancestor,” Patrice snarked.

“Not bloody likely,” Colin Jr. obviously didn't think so.

“That's a given,” Charles' voice carried. “This is the grave of a wise man, something you're definitely not!” 

Bronwyn quickly spoke up wanting to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand. “Due to this unexpected find, this dig has become a rather serious archaeological site.” Bronwyn smiled insincerely and approached the Colin the Elder. 

“I paid a lo' o' money for dis teen-aged day camp!” Colin the Elder poked Bronwyn in the sternum with a tobacco stained finger. “You can't just go kickin' him off!” 

“I apologize that you were led to believe that this was a daycare for delinquents. Sadly, it is not.” Bronwyn's smile became obviously forced. “Your son wasn't paying attention, which he never does, and stepped into a grave we were excavating. He damaged the body and most likely the artifacts within. This is very serious. As I stated yesterday, he needs to grow up and grow a pair. We can no longer afford to have him on this team. Pissing off parents of delinquents is not grounds for dismissal.” She grabbed his finger. “And if you poke me again, you will regret it.”

The man bent over into her face, the stench of cigarettes and sweat over powering. “Y' think you can take me on?” Before she could respond, he stood back up, towering over the short woman. “You might 's well pack your shite up. I've complained to your boss an' he's said he's replacing you!” He grinned at the horrified group. “Said he's sending you back overseas where you belong wifout a single reference. Takin' over, he is. I hope,” he sneered, “you end up cleaning toilets! That would serve you right!” 

Bronwyn never moved, never let on that what the man said upset her. “Alfred?” she called over her shoulder, “did you talk to this man?” 

Alfred was busy cleaning his glasses. “No, I did not.” He never looked up, engrossed on his task. “Might I ask you who you spoke to?” 

Colin the Elder wasn't expecting this. Neither was his son. He snorted. “Dr. Royce Marshburn!” 

Bronwyn's jaw dropped, along with everyone else on site. Snickers were heard from the teens. “Dr. Royce Marshburn?” She motioned with her hand. “Six foot, blonde, blue-eyed-”

“I don't know!” the man snapped. “We spoke over the phone!” 

Colin the Younger was thinking hard. “Dad? I thought you spoke to his secretary.”

“It doesn't matter!” Colin's father gritted through his teeth.

“Actually,” Alfred put his glasses back on and peered owlishly at the two, “it does. Dr. Royce Marshburn isn't in charge of this dig, and will not be taking over this dig. I-” he interrupted the ready to explode tirade, “am Dr. Alfred Llewellyn and I am in charge of this dig. Dr. Davidson is highly regarded in her field, certainly moreso than Dr. Marshburn and is not being replaced, least of all by him. Your son has been told not to come back to this site. I'm now extending that order to you. Please do not force me to call the authorities to have you forcibly removed, nor make it necessary for me to obtain a restraining order.” He took a deep breath and plastered a pleasant smile on his face. “As Dr. Davidson stated, we are not a paid daycare service. Considering the damage your son has done, I will inform university officials that a refund is not to be extended and we will be consulting with our legal depart as to what legal action should be taken against you and your...” he openly snarled, “spawn. You have one minute to remove your vile presence as well as your sperm recipient from this spot.” 

“Last I heard, it were public property.” 

“It has been declared an official archaeological site,” Alfred stopped the argument before it started. “Papers have been filed with the authorities.” His cell phone appeared out of nowhere in his hand. “You need to leave now.” 

For a moment, Bronwyn feared the bully would strike out. Instead, he scowled and motioning to his son, turned and stalked off. She let out a sigh of relief. “Alfred, old bean, I didn't think you had it in you.” 

Alfred was watching the two go down the hill. “I didn't either. You've been through enough with that one and I doubt it's over.” 

“Oh, no doubt.” She took a breath, aware that the rest of the crew was still mulling about, talking about the incident. “About Royce-” 

“Don't worry about Royce. I'll take care of him.” 

_~~~...~~~_

The remaining weeks of the dig went quickly and smoothly. Everything that could be cataloged was reported and verified. Video of the altercation with the Colins Horrible somehow was leaked to Youtube and other social media, causing a small firestorm. Bronwyn received more than one inquiry for future sites. 

Royce was blessedly silent.

It was understandable that Bronwyn was in a melancholy mood those last few days. The university archaeological team came in the last week to clean up and close up the site. Plans were being discussed about further testing on the site and how to protect it until spring.

“So,” Bronwyn dug into her steak. _Fuck diets! This has been a successful dig._ “Am I welcome back next year, if the University wants to continue?” 

Alfred was busy peppering the salad she didn't get. He never looked up. “Of course you are. So are most of your students. Not the delinquent or his father. Several of the others have the interest and show promise. However, I hope that you see sense in taking a year and researching one of the other offers you've gotten. I hear,” and with this he looked up, “that there is interest stirring in Cardiff and that you've had a guest professorship offered to you in the States.” 

Bronwyn winced. “Yeah. The professorship could quickly turn into something more. A base of sorts.” She stuck a piece of steak in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Pay is not bad. And you're right. It would give me a chance to research some of the offers I've had.” 

Alfred's attention returned to his salad. It was obvious he was regretting his choice of dinner. “I hear one of those offers is Cantref Mawr.”

“It is probably a trash site for Hugh le Despencer.” She shuddered at the thought. “That one needs to be left buried in several places. I don't want to find his dirty laundry!”

Alfred smiled at her joke. “So, the guest professorship has merit?” 

Bronwyn shrugged. 

“You do not appear to be overly excited.” 

Bronwyn laid her knife down on her plate. “Royce said I should go home and never return. Become a stuffy professor. It feels like that's what I'm doing. You know, those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.” 

“Don't be insulting. You know better.” Alfred's face suddenly became quite animated. “You should not worry about what Royce thinks.” He took a stab at the last of his salad. “His ship has begun to sink. He might not know it, but it is.” 

“What do you know?” Bronwyn's voice was cajoling. 

Alfred never looked up, simply continued to chew thoughtfully before swallowing and staring at his plate. “Royce stepped on a few toes claiming he was in charge of your dig and had any power whatsoever. He angered Colin's father, although no one is listening to him.” Alfred stared at the final bite before simply laying his fork down and focusing now on Bronwyn. “Marshburn's dig has yielded some interesting things that make it and him questionable.”

Bronwyn twirled her finger. _More?_

The elderly professor leaned forward. “Things that should not be found in a thousand year old site. Modern things.” He pulled back as the waiter came by and refilled his wine glass. Once the young man was out of earshot, he changed the subject. “When are you returning home?”

The wine was getting to Bronwyn. She signaled for coffee. “I'm taking the midnight train going anyyy-wherrrrrrrrrre.”

“Please don't sing. It isn't your forte.” It was droll, but said with rare humor.

“Well, I am. My train to London leaves at midnight and I'm flying out to Atlanta three days later. I thought I might spend a few days sight-seeing.” She smiled and toasted the man across from her, draining her glass and setting it to the side, making room for the coffee cup. “London is beautiful and I've not spent any real time there in years, except to change flights. I have tickets to _'The Crucible'._ I hear the lead playing John Proctor is amazing.”

Alfred smiled wanly. “I'm glad you are joining the world, again. There is more to life than ancient dead bodies and pottery shards.” 

“But, they are more interesting and don't try to steal from me.” 

Alfred's look was... there was no describing it and it worried Bronwyn. “Bronwyn. Go home for a year. Do that guest professorship. Grieve. Research and talk to the various offers that are coming your way. Rejuvenate yourself. Don't think of Royce or that bimbo he married. Royce's star is no longer rising. This time next year, he will be praying for an upper levels teaching position. No one will want him on their crew. No university will want him as a professor. The bimbo – does she have a name?” 

Bronwyn scowled at him. “Faun.”

“Oh gawd,” Alfred waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind! She will find greener pastures well enough.” The dessert tray was wheeled around and despite the desire to skip it, Bronwyn gave in to the eerie feeling that she might never see chocolate cheesecake again. 

Small things were discussed, little things, here and there. As dessert was finished and Alfred slid away from the table, he looked blearily at Bronwyn. 

“I am considering retiring in a few years. The Archaeological Board would jump at the chance of having a working archaeologist as a professor. One who knows and loves Wales as you do.” He stood up and grabbed the check before Bronwyn could get hers. “Take your year. You've earned it. You've proven yourself. Forget Royce. I'll make sure the university here jumps at a chance to have you on the team.” He turned to leave, but then had a second thought. “Madoc is a legend. A beloved legend. Don't allow him to become your Atlantis. Or Yeti.” 

And he left, with Bronwyn wondering just how drunk was she?

_~~~...~~~_

As Bronwyn had stayed with them so long, the motel agreed to a late check out. They weren't busy and the room wasn't needed immediately, so she had time to go back, take a shower, and double check her bags before loading up her vehicle. The train station had a place where she could drop off her rental car and in a sense, as the town had become home, the archaeologist decided to take a final roam through the hamlet. There were a few locally crafted things she wished to purchase for Ashley and her little boy, and for herself, to be honest. She loaded the car, double checked under the bed, the shower, and the drawers. She made sure her small carry on was packed: her wallet, her kindle, MP3 player, her train and theater tickets, that damned pen. For not the first time, she studied it, at the engraved initials of her ex husband. _Why would he gift her with such an expensive pen? Just to spite her? She'd have given him a cheap number 2 pencil!_ Bah! It was a wasted thought. 

She parked on the street in the little town and went into several shops. Many of the shopkeepers knew her and over the past week, had laid aside items for her. She purchased a peasant blouse and skirt for Ashley – why she loved them was beyond Bronwyn but... and a set of hand-carved horses for Sydney. She wandered from shop to shop, killing time. For not the first time, she eyed and fingered a handmade turquoise shawl, bright and an unusual color for this area. 

“Go ahead.” A familiar looking saleswoman nudged her. “20% off. On sale for you.” She lifted the shawl and draped it over her shoulder. “It's very soft. Please.”

It was soft and beautiful but-

“Why?”

The woman looked around. “My son worked on your dig. He said you put Colin Spencer and his son in their place.” She shook her head. “They've been bullies too long.”

Bronwyn looked closely at the woman. “Charles is your son.” 

She smiled, love radiating on her face. “Yes. He's a lug, but he's a good lug. He thinks the world of you. So do I.” She patted the shawl still on Bronwyn's shoulder. “This color looks so good on you. On second thought, take it, as a gift from me.” 

“But-”

“I made it and I won't take 'no' for an answer.” She handed it to her. “I hope we see you next year.” And with that, the woman turned and disappeared into the back of the shop. 

Bronwyn blinked back tears, but she draped the shawl around her shoulders, exiting the store. 

She had her car in her sights when suddenly, a crazy, screaming woman jumped in front of her and began to slap at her. 

“YOU BITCH! YOU JUST HAD TO KEEP YOUR CLAWS IN!” Bronwyn stepped back, dropping her bags beside her on the sidewalk and put her arms up in a defensive position. The woman continued screaming, a crowd now drawing around them. “YOU BITCH! YOU RUINED YOUR DIG SO YOU HAD TO FUCK UP OURS! YOU JUST COULDN'T STAND HE'S HAPPY WITH ME!”

The pummeling suddenly stopped as two men pulled the woman off her, effectively holding her back. “Someone call the authorities.” 

Bronwyn dropped her arms and took a look at the woman. “Faun?” Anger took over the fiery archaeologist. “What's gotten into you? What the hell is your problem?”

“You bitch! You messed up our dig!” 

Bronwyn blinked several times. Alfred had mentioned that there were irregularities on Royce's dig, serious irregularities... 

“How on God's green earth could I mess up Royce's dig? I've been here!” 

Faun struggled between the two men. “Turn me loose, you arse-wipes!” With the two brawny men standing between her and Faun, Bronwyn nodded to turn her loose. Faun shook herself and straightened her cardigan. She reached into the pocket and thrust a baggie at Bronwyn. “There! See?” 

Bronwyn held her hand out for the bag, trying to mask her shock. 

There, in the confines, was a gold Cross pen. It looked old, ancient...

“This isn't mine-”

“Yes, it is, you fuckin' bitch!” Faun's accent made it sound as 'fookin'. “Royce's initials are on it! It was the only one that had his initials and he gave it to you!” Bronwyn began to turn the bag this way and that, searching...

_Oh my God. Royce's initials..._

Faun was bouncing on her toes. “See? See? That's not all we found!” 

Bronwyn continued to inspect the pen, trying to keep herself under control. “What else did you find?” 

Faun was on a roll. “A theater ticket for a play in London tomorrow. A set of car keys. Your MP3 player and ear buds.” 

“Those things could be anybody's,” Bronwyn whispered.

“I seen you wearing 'em!” The woman was starting to froth at the mouth. “They were in a pot!

Bronwyn wasn't listening at this point, instead concentrating on the bag. Faun was screaming, a small crowd had gathered around. A policeman finally showed up and attempted to calm Royce's current wife down. It wasn't working. 

“I knew you'd come after us when that kid stepped in that grave! I told Royce to leave you alone, you'd retaliate! He shoulda stepped through the ribs-”

A horrid thought suddenly occurred to Bronwyn. Her eyes jerked up. “You paid Colin to destroy my dig, didn't you?” 

The smug smile on Faun's face said it all. “He's not done with you!”

Bronwyn's mind began to race. She turned on her heel and pressing the baggie into the police officer's hand, she grabbed her dropped purchases and rushed to her car. 

“Miss?” One of the police officers called after her. “Are ye wishin' to press charges?” 

Bronwyn didn't stop. “Yes! Lock her ass up!” She jumped into her vehicle, cranked the engine and honking, backed up and pulled out of the parking lot. 

As she passed the crowd, she pulled out her cellphone and growled when she got the answering machine. “Alfred! Faun was just here and accused me of messing up Royce's dig! She claimed they dug up Royce's Cross pen among other things.” She took a breath. “She insinuated they paid or coerced Colin to sabotage my dig and he wasn't done with me. I'm heading there now! Please send someone!”

~~~...~~~

Aelhaearn looked into the night sky, along with many of the villagers. The Areolas Borealis was very colorful that night, the colors a very unusual hue.

“The air is restless,” Meaurig whispered in the old man's ear. “'Tis unnatural.” There was a pause. “I do not like it.” 

“You dislike everything. You are worse than an old woman.” The old man tilted his head, still watching the dark sky. “There is a wanderer lost in the lower hills.”

Meaurig started to ask the old man how he knew, but the Druid knew many things. “Where?” Aelhaearn rolled his eyes. “Which way?” Meaurig amended. 

The old Druid pointed to the east. “There, near the trees where the fog is.” He grabbed Meaurig before he could turn. “She is no enemy. Treat her kindly.” 

Meaurig turned and scowled. “I know of no friend who comes in the night. Only those who bear bad news or ill will!” His argument was not meant for anyone's ears but his own. He pulled his hood up and grabbed his bow and quiver. 

Aelhaearn was not paying attention anyway. He was looking back up to the sky. The Northern Lights were starting to boil, the streamers whipping back and forth like slender banners in the wind. He pulled the pouch from around his neck. Tipping it, he poured a bright blue powder into the palm of his hand. Inhaling deeply, he blew them into the air, the particles catching the light of the fire. “The ribbons dance. She is coming.” 

_~~~...~~~_

It seemed to take forever for Bronwyn to make it to the site. Driving like a crazy person, she made her way off road. At one point, she had to get out because there were traffic cones across the entrance to the dig. Sometime in the coming week, a true gate was to go up and Bronwyn was understandably miffed that it hadn't yet. 

There were three aging motor scooters parked in the middle of the road. She recognized Colin's. Throwing her rental into park, she grabbed her iPhone from her carry all and started to jump out. For some odd reason, she reached back in, throwing the car keys into her satchel and grabbed it as well. If for no other reason, it was heavy and could be used as a swinging weapon, if necessary. 

She pressed the power switch on her iPhone and turned on the video. Even if it was almost dark and a strange misty fog rising from the brush, at least it would pick up the sounds. She tucked it in her shirt pocket, camera lens out. As she neared the site, she heard sounds, giggling. There was the noise of breaking glass, the smell of marijuana.

She stepped into the clearing. 

Colin and two buddies, Delwyn and Niclas, were drinking and smoking pot. Del launched an empty beer bottle at a rock, shattering it against a tree. “Good riddance.” 

“Aye.” Colin was quick to agree. He took a drag from the joint. “My da sez when he finishes wif da bitch, her will never come back!” 

“Yeah, 'magine,” Niclas slurred, “a 'Merican tellin' us our history! Ain't nat'ral!” 

Colin was passing the joint. “Ain't right.” He pounded Del in that arm, not realizing that his friend realized they had company, and not the good kind. “Me da sez she needs someone t'haul her into the bushes and not hurt her too bad!” 

“Uhm...” Del was pointing, “Colin?”

Colin was not only ignoring his friend, he was definitely feeling the buzz from the marijuana, as well as the beer. “Me da also sez he'd be t'man fer t'job, but he reckons she a tight arse an' would be like fukkin a dead fish!”

“And your father would know about fucking a dead fish?” 

Colin dropped his beer and turned, mouth agape. 

“Lookit the red light in 'er pocket.” Del was backtracking. 

Colin grin was evil. “Don't mean nuttin'.” 

“You're live, buddy!” Bronwyn grinned, hoping the bully didn't see through her lie. “Straight to Dr. Llewellyn and the authorities.” She patted her pocket. “I ran into Faun Marshburn back in town. She implicated you in a bit of nastiness.”

Colin looked at both of his friends before turning and crashing through the brush. Del and Niclas followed and within moments, the roar of three mopeds roared to life. Bronwyn shook her head, wishing she had taken a moment to take a picture of them to send to Alfred. She called him, frowning when she went to his voice mail. She hung up before the message finished. He knew she was heading here. He could deal with it later. 

She began to walk through the site, using the small flashlight on her camera to survey the site. As expected, there was broken glass strewn about. There were cigarette butts, what looked like cigarette papers. Oh, and close to what had been the grave was the smell of... 

urine? 

-and something else??? 

Bronwyn scrunched her nose at the stench, afraid of what it might be. Turning her phone's flashlight to the ground so she could watch her step, she continued to peruse the area. 

There was a rustle in the brush. 

Bronwyn turned, shining her paltry light towards the noise. “Who's there?” She squinted but saw nothing but the reflection of her light. It was now fully dark and it dawned on her that she was in the woods alone with known enemies waiting to harm her. It now didn't matter if she stepped in manure and she started to head back to her car. Two steps down, she stubbed her toe on something soft. She looked down quickly, shining the small beam on what she almost tripped on. 

“What the-” 

Re-situating her gym bag on her shoulder, she bent over and picked up the Druid's pouch. 

“I could have sworn-” 

_-this was attached to the Druid's funerary that was sent to the University ..._

The fog eerily rose, tendrils whipping around her ankles and calves. 

_What witchery is this?_

The pouch flared, turning white and then electric blue. Bronwyn peered closely at it, only for the scrap of hide to explode in her face. Blue vapor rose from it, covering her, the surrounding area, the soot and dirt flying around her face and into her nostrils. This caused her to sneeze, her free hand waving to clear the air. 

She opened her eyes when she thought it was safe. 

Only to find a strangely dressed tall man in a hood, standing in front of her, arrow nocked and the arrowhead within inches of her nose. He pulled the string tighter. 

“Stopio ble rydych chi! Pwy ydych chi?”

**** __

_**tbc** _


	4. Chapter 03

**__**

When the Ribbons Dance

**  
__  
**

Chapter 03

“Stopio ble rydych chi! Pwy ydych chi?”

Bronwyn scowled at the arrow point, inches from her nose. “HEY!” She dropped her bag and pushed the arrow to the left. “It's kinda late for a reenactment!” 

He put the arrow back in her face. “Psy ydych chi?” 

She pushed it to the side again. “And this is a protected historical site!” She shook her diminutive finger at him. “You need to go! I will call the police!”

There was laughter behind her and she turned to see she was surrounded by similarly dressed men, hooded and arrows notched. 

And aimed at her!

She recognized the language, lived it, spoke it. The Welsh language hadn't changed much in over a millennium, unlike English. The articulation, however, was archaic and odd.

“What language is she speaking?” one asked.

“Alright!” she turned back to the man in front. His arrow was back in her face. “You're taking this reenactment too far! And for the last time,” she pushed the arrow again to the side, “get that thing out of my face!”

“I would wager that she is an English spy! We should just execute her now!” This caused Bronwyn to gasp.

“I do not remember the English dressing like that.” 

“Or anyone, to be honest.” 

There was rustling. “This is a strange rucksack! I wonder what's in it?” 

“How do you open it?”

“What? HEY!” Bronwyn reached for her knapsack from the man behind her who had picked it up. “You keep your hands off my stuff!”

The man who grabbed her bag had a feral smile. It was not nice. He pulled it from her reach. “Give her to me. I'll make her sing. We will know who she spies for!” 

Up until this time, Bronwyn had been speaking English. The retort was swift and in a tongue she knew he would understand. “Try it and I'll kick your balls clear into your throat!”

Jaws dropped and she felt herself restrained in the embrace of the warrior behind her. “Ah.” he whispered in her ear. “She has teeth and claws. Methinks you are not the man for her.”

“And she is our guest!” A girl of mid-teen years stepped into the clearing. She was dressed in an outfit suitable for the 12th century. “My grandfather sent me to remind you of that, Meaurig!” Obviously unafraid of the men with the bows, she smacked the warrior – Meaurig – on the arm and pulled Bronwyn from his grasp. She then turned to the man holding her bag. “Give me that, Cnaithur. Threatening to go through a fine lady's things! I'll tell your wife!” She grabbed the bag and handed it to Bronwyn. The girl turned to her and smiled in the mist. “My name is Glenys and my grandfather is the village wise man, Aelhaearn. You are probably hungry. Please come.” She turned and left, clearly expecting Bronwyn to follow. When she didn't, Glenys turned. “We mean you no harm. My grandfather is waiting dinner for you and we have a warm place for you to sleep.” She gestured towards the direction from where she came. “Unless you want to stay with these wharf rats?” 

“No. Not really.” Bronwyn swept around Meaurig and followed Glenys. As they exited the trees, Bronwyn got a good look at her surroundings. 

It had been almost twilight when she entered the grotto where the Druid had been buried and was not quite full dark while she dealt with The Bully Boys. However, now, it was full dark and in the distance, she could see a village, fires burning in the center of the square and lights through the windows. She could smell cooking smells; ham, roast fowl. 

And unwashed bodies. 

_This wasn't here before...the landmarks...the landmarks are different... that mountain in the distant is from the wrong angle..._

“Glenys?” 

“Aye?” 

“Who is king?”

The girl snorted. “That would be the question, now wouldn't it?” They began moving downhill. “You must be very new if you don't know.” 

“I'm kind of lost and trying to get my bearings.” She put on her best poker face. “I've been wandering and out of touch, so I've heard little news as of late.”

“Hywel should be king,” this came from the warrior – Meaurig – who was close behind. “however Christiana's brats, Dafydd and Rhodri, have run him to Ireland.” 

Bronwyn's mind churned. If this wasn't a reenactment, she was standing smack-dab in Madoc-country in the 12th century!   
_  
Wait a minute.... Madoc..._

“What is the name of that settlement ahead?” 

“That,” Glenys stated proudly, “is Ceredigion and a fine town, it is!” 

While Bronwyn's mouth was silent, her brain was not. 

_Ceredigion?_

**__**

  
~~~...~~~

“Welcome! Welcome!” Glenys's grandfather was spritely and moved with energy that Bronwyn was envious of. Bronwyn couldn't place a finger on his age, especially in this time period, if this was a time period. He could be in his thirties, or his sixties. Most likely in his eighties!

Or maybe she was insane. For not the first time, she decided one of the Bully Boys had hit her in the back of the head and she was lying dead on the ground back at the dig. Great! They'd probably re-opened the Druid's grave and dumped her in it. 

With a suddenness that startled the archaeologist, the old man had her settled at a table, a bowl of something steaming in front of her. She didn't recognize it, but it smelled good. Despite the fact that she had eaten in the previous two hours, she was now starving. Wine was set before her in a bowl and the old man plopped down across from her. “Well? Eat! Eat!” He stared at her while she lifted bowl to her mouth. He spoke again just as she began to sip. “I am Aelhaearn. Some call me the village wise man. Others call me a silly old bastard.”

“No. They call you a heretic!”

“Where did you come from?” This was directed at the rude Welsh Warrior was hidden in the shadows, and he was getting on her nerves. And her nerves were already shot, trying to figure out how one minute she was in 2016 and, if Owain was dead and Hywel was still alive, the next she was in 1170.

_Oh yeah. Colin hit me in the back of the head and she was buried in the Druid's grave. This wasn't a bad hell, to be honest. Just this annoying arrow-happy warrior with the God complex._

“I have lived in Deheubarth my entire life.” '

Bronwyn's bowl stopped in mid-lift. “What?” 

“You asked,” he reminded her snidely, “where I came from. I told you.”

She drank from the bowl and eyed the roasted fowl that Glenys set in the middle of the table. 

“Where are you from?” 

She closed her eyes to keep from screaming and drained the bowl. Setting it down, she reached for the wine bowl.

“So full of words and now you have none?” 

“I think,” Aelhaearn interjected gently, “our guest is tired and confused. Rather than interrogate her, you should return to your hearth. She might be more amenable in the morning when she is rested and you have remembered the manners your mother taught you.” The Druid waved at him as if to brush him away. “Go. Go on with you.” He waved at Glenys. “You too. Go on with you! She is safe with me!” 

Meaurig snorted and moved towards the doorway. As he passed the older man, he leaned over, eyes glittering beneath his hood and his whisper very audible. “Aye. But are you safe from her?” 

Bronwyn's eyes shot open, fire and daggers...

Meaurig smiled at her, but continued to talk to the Druid, his face still shaded in the dark. “She has teeth and claws. Told Cnaithur she would shove his man parts into his throat!” 

Aelhaearn chortled. “I would pay well to see that.” He waved at him again. “On with you. Out. Out.” He waited until the two left before turning back to his guest. “Would you like more wine?” 

Bronwyn immediately burst into tears. 

**__**

~~~...~~~

At some point, Bronwyn imbibed something that made her sleepy and the old man tucked her in a pallet that was lumpy and smelled strange, and was not of the 21st century. She dreamed of dancing skeletons and war. She woke before dawn. Getting up, she stumbled into the main living area of the dwelling.

The wise man – Aelhaearn – was seated at the table, potions and a plate of sand before him. Craggy features were lit by the fire, shadows from his finger, dragging through the sand. “You will wish some privacy for a short time, I suspect,” he muttered. “There is a chamber pot and a bowl of water through that doorway.” He nodded to the side, where an entryway was covered with a bit of hide. Bronwyn slid from her seat and started towards the doorway. “Take a lamp with you. I would be most aggrieved if you fell to the floor.”

“I would be embarrassed as hell,” Bronwyn muttered back. 

Several minutes later, Bronwyn returned to the table, a disdainful snarl on her face. There was a self-satisfied smirk on Aelhaern's face as he poured honeyed mead into the bowl in front of Bronwyn. “The accommodations not to your liking?” 

Bronwyn's sigh was heavy. “Your hospitality is superb, however I'm not used to this way of life.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “It is as if I am in a dream I can't wake up from.”

Now the Druid's smile turned sad. He sat across from the woman. He moved his potions and plate of sand to the side, took off the necklace of talisman's and then plopped the animal skin pouch to the side. He didn't seem to notice Bronwyn's reaction to the pouch. “This is not a dream. I fear,” he continued with sigh. “It is the future of my people that I fear for and I have used great magic to aid us and our people.” He poured himself a goblet and lifted it. “I had hoped for a warrior. A warrior of great renowned.” 

Bronwyn took a sip from her bowl. “I hope your magic provides you with one.” 

“Where are you from?” 

She reached for the pouch. Her hand hovered above it. “May I?” 

“Certainly.” 

Bronwyn picked up the sack and inspected it closely. The colors were brighter, and she knew she was seeing it in all of it's original glory. She shook her head and continued to turn the bag. “This is very...surreal.”

“'Tis simply a moleskin sac. My wife made it for me.” 

His nonchalance caused Bronwyn to smile. “She does beautiful work. Tell her, I'm jealous.” 

Aelhaearn's smile was sad. “Alas, she passed ten Yules back. Sweating sickness no one could cure her from.”

“I am sorry.”

“You have not answered my question.” His hand covered hers. “Help us, please.”

Bronwyn breathed deep. “If Owain is dead and Hywel is still alive, than I am from almost 850 years in your future.” 

Aelhaearn's grin was genuine. “Ah! Better than a warrior! A historian!” As quickly as his grin rose, it fell with thundering velocity. “Oh no. You cannot-”

The woman was shaking her head. “Not a word.” 

The Druid leaned back on his stool, shoulders slumped. “If things are not as we wish, we would attempt to change history!” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Oh dear. I have done you and my prince a great disservice.” 

“We'll figure it out.” _Maybe I'll just wake up and claw my way out of the grave Colin and his cronies left me in._ “How long has Owain been dead?” She pushed the empty mug towards the old man, nodding for more. A cold wind snapped through the hide covering the doorway, causing both woman and old man to shiver. 

“I will heat some cider.” Aelhaearn took the mug and stood up. “Glenys will be along at sunrise with eggs and pork strips.” 

_Bacon!_

He went to the hearth and stirred the embers, causing flames to flare up. Taking an earthen jug from the mantle, he poured the contents into a kettle and swung it over the fire. “She is a good girl, my granddaughter.” 

“She certainly put those warriors in their place!” 

Aelhaearn grinned. “She is a spit fire. Just like her mother and her grandmother.” He looked over his shoulder to see Bronwyn turning the decorated purse over in her hands, inspecting it closely. He came around the table and sat across from her. He took her hand in his. “Why are you so interested in my moleskin?” 

She handed it to him. “It is a thing of beauty.” 

“'Tis not _that_ beautiful,” 

“I was simply admiring it.” 

He squeezed her hand. “In answer to your question, Owain died five days ago. His eldest son, Hywel, was to become king, however, his half brothers, Dafydd and Rhodri have chased him out of Wales and into Ireland.” His grip tightened and his look hardened. “He will be back. I know Hywel. He will bring an army of great might with him.” Bronwyn stayed very still, Aelhaearn watching her intently. “What do you think of that?”

“I'm told I have an excellent poker face, so you'll get nothing from me.” 

“Poke her face?” 

This statement caused Bronwyn to grin. “It means if I am playing a chance game, I will not give anything away with the look on my face.” 

“AH!” Aelhaearn grinned back. “Stone face. Tell me something you can tell me.”

Bronwyn nodded. “Did Christiant and her sons have anything to do with Owain's death?” 

“I have not considered that.” Aelhaearn's face screwed up in thought. “They did move quickly, did they not?” 

“It is speculated among scholars in my time that they must have had a hand in it.”

The Druid exhaled loudly. “If they did, I know nothing of it and I wouldn't breathe a word out loud. Not unless all three die before I do.” It was quiet for a few moment. “Hywel is a good man. He will make a good king. How will he be remembered? How will Owain be remembered? In your history?” 

Bronwyn was careful choosing her words. “Owain will be remembered for having too many sons.” Aelhaearn chuckled at that statement. “He will be remembered for his political sparring with Henry II.” Aelhaearn went from laughing to growling. “As well as trying to keep the peace within his own family.” She decided not to tell him historians cringed at the thought of him marrying his first cousin, although he was not the first, nor the last to do so. “Hywel will be best remembered as Wales first lyric poet. Eight of his poems will survive to my time.” She turned the hide pouch in her hands, examining the handiwork.

“A poet, but not a king.” 

“I didn't say that.” 

Aelhaearn rose from the bench and went to the fireplace. The cider was boiling merrily in the kettle and he poured both his and her mugs full of the steaming liquid. “Yes, you did, but your secret is safe with me.” His fingers flicking over the goblets were a graceful ballet in the shadows, but she wasn't paying attention. “You are unusually enamored in my moleskin pouch. Drink.” He pushed the earthen chalice towards her. 

“Hywel will be mostly and best remembered as a poet,” she reiterated. Bronwyn set the sack down and reached for the cup. It was warm and it dawned on her how cold she was. “A wonderful, talented poet who was not restricted in the content of his poems, as the court bards are. Love and his love of nature and Cymru.” 

The old Druid waited until she had drained the goblet. From somewhere, a cock crowed. “Tell me about you.”

“Not much to tell.” 

“Oh, I think differently. I prayed for a statesmen, conjured and sacrificed for a warrior, and I got-” he held his hands towards the woman, “you. There must be a reason why the gods sent me a...” His voice trailed off, waiting obviously for Bronwyn to give him answers. 

“They gave you an archaeologist.” 

Refilling her cup, Aelhaearn smiled. “And just what is an archaeologist?” Smoke rose from the depths. 

“I study history from civilizations that had no written history or have a written history in a dead language. Ancient Cymru has very little written history, the majority of it kept by the Bards. So I dig up things.” One eyebrow lifted, the man obviously asking her to elaborate. “I dig up old things. Really old things. Hundreds and thousands of years old things.” 

“Huh!” Aelhaearn sat back. “Why would you want to dig up old things?” 

“It's how we study past times that have no written documentation.” She drained the goblet and held it out for more. “We study old foundations, pot shards, weaponry, other things.”

“Other things? Sounds interesting.” Aelhaearn was now refilling his own chalice. “And what was the last old thing you dug up?” 

Bronwyn's nose was deep in the chalice, her voice echoing eerily. “I.. uhm... am interested in your pouch because I excavated your funerary and that pouch was among the artifacts.”

Aelhaearn scrunched up his nose. “You... excavated? I am not familiar with this word.”

Immediately, Bronwyn deflated. “My team and I were digging the foundations of an old settlement about two or three days walk from here. We found your grave.”

“Digging foundations?”

“Dug up foundations and other things..” 

Aelhaearn's face screwed up in consternation. “You dug me up?” 

“Yes.” 

“You dug up my grave?” 

“Yes.” 

“I was in it?” 

“Yes.”

The druid seemed horrified. “You dug up my grave! How rude!” 

Bronwyn shrugged. “I apologize, but your grave taught my students much about their history.”

Aelhaearn's mouth crooked. “And what did _you_ learn?” 

“That you were much beloved and well respected.” 

“My grave told you all of that! Well,” he sat back with a smile, arms crossed, as the hide covering was swept aside and Glenys came in, her apron rolled over eggs and pork. Soon, the smell and sounds of frying eggs and bacon filled the room. The sun rose, filling the chamber with light. 

And it filled Bronwyn with dread as to what she would find outside the cottage. And she wondered if she would ever go home.

**__**

~~~...~~~

“You conjured a warrior and instead brought forth a historian who says she desecrated your grave and refuses to tell you what we need to know to put Hywel back on the throne of Cymru and Madoc at his right hand,” Meaurig sneered, “and you are happy about this?”

“Oh aye, indeed. Very happy!” Aelhaearn was out walking, blowing rings in the cold air. 

“Is there any way you can send her back and trade her for someone useful?” 

Aelhaearn stopped in the middle of the road and stared at the tall warrior with deepest disgust. “I do not know you.” He waved his hand. “Begone, you bothersome gnat! Send me someone with intelligence whom I can converse with and who doesn't mind walking in the cold. We have troubles that need tended to.” 

“Aye, troubles that extend to our king in exile while his half-brothers, who couldn't govern a jail cell prance about-”

“NO!” The Druid shook his head. “I mean, aye, they are troubles indeed and they will work themselves out as they should, however, we have other troubles.”

“Great Goddess of the Moon!” Meaurig beseeched the sky. “Our king is dead, his heir in exile, and we have other troubles. Are the Britons amassing on the border?” 

Aelhaearn stared at the younger man. “Watch your tongue. The Christian priests take offense if you call on other deities.” 

“You offend them,” Meaurig reminded the Druid, sticking his finger in the elderly man's face. “I know not why you still live.” The two resumed walking. 

“Where do you think they get their sanctified wine from? Their 'holy water'? Hmm?” The Druid put his hands behind his back and strode forward, but not before turning around to ensure no one was near them. “I have not the heart to tell them the majority of the grapes come from their own vineyard and I spit in it.” 

Meaurig began to chuckle. “Something tells me that is not all you put in their wine.” 

“Oh, I will never tell. Just,” he raised a finger, “do not accept any offers to partake with them.” Both hands went behind his back again. “Our guest needs proper clothing. She cannot go about garbed as she is and I was hoping you had some suggestions. I doubt she will not wish to stay inside for long.” 

“Fine.” Meaurig's sigh was deep and painfully felt. “She is of a similar height of my little bird. I'll take her some of my wife's clothing.” 

“If it fits, you can give her all.” Aelhaearn appeared most jovial. “You certainly can't wear them!” 

Meaurig rolled his eyes. “I'll take something by later. And her name is?”

Aelhaearn stopped in his tracks. “Why, you know? I have no clue what her name is!” He began to giggle. “I have completely forgotten to ask her.”

**__**

~~~...~~~

Bronwyn stood at the table, perusing the small home. She was alone, so she was able to gawk and stare without repercussions. There were four rooms; a chamber room, two small sleeping areas and the main chamber that appeared to be nothing more than a large eat-in kitchen. Satisfying her curiosity, she spilled the contents of her knapsack across the table and laid the shawl Charles' mother gave her on it as well. A notepad, Royce's Cross Pen, her car keys, phone, kindle, wallet, and her MP3 player with earbuds. Suddenly, Royce and Faun's problematic dig took on new light. She began to giggle.

_Oh Faun. If I'm not dead and buried, I did fuck up your dig! Good for me!_

The door was pulled back and Glenys stepped through. She caught sight of the things on the table. 

“Oh, this is pretty!” She reached for the hand-knit shawl Charles' mother gave her. Bronwyn would never be able to send her a thank you card for it. “Such an unusual color!” She handed it over to Bronwyn. “Did you make it?”

“Thank you. And no, I didn't.” She folded it gently. “My knitting ability is pretty wretched.” 

“My mother did this sort of weaving,: Glenys handed it back. “She died when I was young, so she was unable to teach me.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

The sound of footfalls approached the dwelling and Bronwyn stepped back into the shadows as the door was pushed aside. The warrior who brought Bronwyn in the previous night, stepped through, a bundle in his hand. 

He was tall, very tall, and as he stepped into the light, searching the room, he pulled his hood back and she bit her lip to keep from gasping. 

He was the warrior that had stalked her in her dreams. 

Long limbed and lean, with sharp, narrow features gracing a gently chiseled face, he had eyes of glass, that glittered in the firelight. Everything about him whispered of taut muscles and a physique of all work and little play. He was grace and power at the same time. His was a startling, carved, rugged beauty. Bronwyn couldn't put an age on him; late-twenties to early-thirties, but again, she was unfamiliar with this time period and how it aged people. 

“There you are.” His voice was deeper than most and the sound of it brought Bronwyn out of her musings. “Why are you hiding in the shadows?” The bundle he was carrying found itself on the table next to her own.

“I'm not hiding,” she stepped to the side, slightly into the light. “I wouldn't think my presence would be well known.”

He began untying the sack. “Oh, it is very well known that Aelhaearn has a guest with strange mannerisms who wears even stranger clothes. However,” Bronwyn could have sworn the man winked at her, “Aelhaearn wears strange clothes and has strange mannerisms. It is bandied you are a long-lost daughter.” 

“I think,” Bronwyn stepped closer to the table, her female curiosity getting the better of her, “you are teasing the Druid.” 

“I am. He is a good friend and a very wise man.” He held up the green velvet he pulled from the sack. “He feels you would be more comfortable dressed as if you belong here.” He held it out to her. “If this fits, I can obtain more.”

Bronwyn took it, holding to her shoulders. It was a traditional dress from the time period, a front and back panel, lacing up the sides. She watched him pull a cream-colored under-dress out. She found herself bustled from the room, both garments in hand, by Glenys, into the side chamber. The girl threw the hide covering down and spun around. “Well, hurry!” she hissed. “I want to see these on you!” Bronwyn found herself stripped down to her underthings and the under-dress thrown over her head. “I can't believe he's parting with these!”

“Do they be-”

“Shhhh!” Glenys looked over her shoulder. “Don't let him hear! I recognize this kirtle! It belonged to his wife.”

Bronwyn's heart fell. _The gorgeous man was married. Just her luck!_ “He has a family?” she whispered. 

“No!” Glenys cupped her hand to her mouth and whispered in Bronwyn's ear. “His wife was dragged off by Northmen some years ago. He hoped for her return for so long, but that hope must be fading. Raise your arms.” She began to lace the ties. “The dress is a bit long, but we can sew that up in no time.”

“Well?” Meaurig was a typical male; impatient. “Does it fit?”

“Allow me to hush that bear!” Bronwyn whispered, making Glenys giggle. She” moved back through the hide covering. “It's a tad long, but I think Glenys and I can take care of that.” She spread her skirts and curtsied. “And what is the name of the gallant knight who sought to clothe me in a fine, lady-like suitable manner?” 

Her smile was infectious and Meaurig had to smile back. “No knight. Just a simple bowman-”

“You lie.” The door crashed open and Aelhaearn strode through. 

“You should just put in a revolving door,” Bronwyn muttered. She smiled back up at the tall man. “Your name?” 

“This,” Aelhaearn gestured, “is Meaurig ap Yoruard, first knight in the service of Prince Madoc ap Owain Gwynnedd. Forgive my manners, but your name?” 

Bronwyn was holding very still, staring into the icy depths of Meaurig's eyes. 

**__**

Madoc? 

“Your name?”

“Bronwyn.” It came out stronger than she thought it would. 

“Branwen?”

“No.” The smile was back. “Bronwyn. Browyn Da... merch Iohanne.”

He bowed. “Bronwyn merch Iohanne, 'tis an honor.” He stood up. “I will go get the rest.” His leaving was a whisper. 

She stared at the door until snapping fingers in her face disturbed her musings. 

“Don't worry,” Aelhaearn laughed. “He has that affect on all women the first time they see him.” 

“And then he opens his mouth and ruins it,” Glenys finished. She went to the hearth and pulled down a shoe-size box. “Stand up! I'll raise the bottom of your kirtle just a wee bit.” Bone needles, the likes that Bronwyn had only read about, came out with finely spun thread and the teen was quickly at her feet. “This is such a pretty color for you and your hair.” Bronwyn finally took a moment to look at the dress. 

It was a pretty color, she decided. The under dress was off-white, with what looked to be crochet or heavy threaded lace at the wrist of the sleeve and the flounce of the skirt. The kirtle or over dress, was emerald green, made of finely spun wool and a darker green embroidery around the neck. It laced up both sides and Glenys made sure it was laced snugly, showing off Bronwyn's curves. 

Glenys was done by the time Meaurig returned with an armload of clothes. 

Which kept Glenys and Bronwyn very busy for the rest of the afternoon. 

__

~~~...~~~

Aelhaearn introduced her as his grandmother's sister's cousin's great granddaughter's sister, visiting from Rome. No one believed it, but then again, no one really cared. She was simply the visitor staying with the wise man and she was welcomed warmly. The Druid was beloved among the people and even the priest from the Catholic Church enjoyed the man's company. In the ten days since Bronwyn arrived, Father Ioseph was a frequent visitor to Aelhaearn's humble abode. The two men argued and discussed dogma and doctrine and life. A lot of wine was drunk and many an afternoon, both stumbled into the small yard, talking a streak, breath rising in puffs of smoke from the cold.

Meaurig was a nightly fixture at the evening meal, and a few times, escorted Bronwyn into town. He knew everyone and they knew him. On more than one occasion, they would stop by the baker, where the tall Welshman would purchase a sweet bread to share. He seemed to enjoy Bronwyn's company, peppering her with questions of her life before her... arrival, curious, it seemed about her world. Eventually, he would ask her about what it was she did and as she expected, he attempted to coerce her into telling him when Hywel would return from Ireland; what Owain's sons needed to do to prepare for removing Rhodri and Dafydd from power. 

Bronwyn would just smile and shake her head. 

After several days and attempts, Meaurig lost his temper. 

“Why? Why will you not tell me what I need to know? Madoc needs to know when Hywel is returning, what he needs, where he needs to be!” His explosion took place in front of Aelhaearn's home and for not the first time, Bronwyn was grateful the cottage was removed from the town. His pestering was now annoying her and she was ready to tell him to find another walking companion. “Do not shake your head and act as if you do not hear me! You speak our language well enough!”

“If you do not like what I tell you or if you decide you know a better way from what I've told you, you will attempt to change history.” She shook her head. “That cannot be allowed to happen. I will not fall into that trap.” With that, she turned and entered the home, welcoming the smells of Glenys's cooking. 

**__**

~~~...~~~

Two weeks before Yule, a rider came to town. Aelhaearn said he was expecting a guest and wanted a shoulder of beef to smoke, so Bronwyn and Glenys were in the village, visiting the butcher. He also said the air felt funny and demanded they take Meaurig with them.

So the Welshman followed the two women through town, growling about being a nursemaid and sitter. He was irritable and as Aelhaearn was equally skittish, Bronwyn was jittery. It seemed no matter what she did or where she went, the bowman was at her elbow and she could not for the life of her, escape him. At least, he was easy on the eyes and didn't grunt much. As the butcher wrapped the roast, Glenys headed across the street to see if Lynwyn had any cheese or late fruit, leaving Bronwyn and Meaurig to gather the meat. The two had just exited the shop when a rider bearing a vaguely familiar sigil on his fur collared cape, cantered into the main square and stopped. It was cold and damp, so there was no dust kicked up, to which Bronwyn was grateful for. 

He turned, looking for who knew what, before calling out. “People of Ceredigion, perhaps one of you can help me. I am seeking Prince Madoc.” 

“Try the castle,” a voice from the crowd spoke up.

The man's smile was oily and he gave Bronwyn the creeps. “Ah, but I have come from there and no one knows his whereabouts.” He continued to look about. “Come now. Surely someone in this rat-hole knows where the prince is hiding!” Silence. “I was hoping,” he turned and caught Meaurig's eye, “you could tell me. Ah. Lord Meaurig. A kindred spirit, no doubt. You know of Prince Madoc's whereabouts?”   
_  
Lord?_

“Greetings, Cewydd.” Bronwyn found herself gently pushed behind the tall Welshman. Meaurig didn't seem pleased to see this Cewydd. “Nay, I have not seen the prince since before the king's death.” Bronwyn peered around him, trying to get a good look at this man who upset her protector.

Cewydd was short and he probably rode a large horse to compensate for his lack of stature. His hair was blonde and hadn't been washed in a long time. Even his mustache and beard was oily. His clothes, however, were of good, sturdy quality and Bronwyn wondered if the layer of sweat and grime was simply traveling? 

But most inns had tubs in which to bathe. Even Aelhaearn had a large, if chipped, bowl for Bronwyn to wash in. So Bronwyn privately believed that the man was just nasty. 

“Why are you looking for Madoc, Cewydd?” 

The man's grin now turned purely evil. “The king would like to speak to him.” 

Meaurig brightened. “Hywel has returned?” 

“I was speaking of Dafydd.” 

Meaurig stood very tall and put his hand to his back, on the hilt of his short sword. “Dafydd is no king. Owain made it clear-”

“But Owain is no longer with us, is he?” The man's smile quickly faded. “Dafydd and Rhodri are Owain's legitimate heirs and Cymru would be wise to remember that!” His face turned into an ugly sneer. “Dafydd and Rhodri have declared themselves joint kings and they wish to come to terms with Madoc to ensure there is no ugliness or problems.”

“I don't recall the church ever approving of King Owain's and Queen Christiant's marriage.” The local priest stood across the square. “In fact, they excommunicated Owain for marrying her against their wishes. I doubt they consider Dafydd or Rhodri, much less any of their other children, legitimate.” Father Ioseph spoke up with much authority. Cewydd scowled at him, but the grey-haired priest did not back down. The surrounding crowd appeared to agree with the priest, mumbling their ire of the newcomer. 

Cewydd turned back toward Meaurig, his angry sneer turning into a cunning snarl. “I see you have a new little bird under your wing. I would hate for her to come to the same fate as your wife.” He pulled his horse up and turned him, spitting over his shoulder. “Find Madoc and tell him to present himself before Dafydd before Yule.” And with that, he kicked his horse too harshly and took off out of town. 

But not before knocking the priest down. 

Who did not get back up. 

**__**

Tbc

_Stopio ble rydych chi! Pwy ydych chi?” - Stop where you are! Who are you!_


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to be able to finish this fic, or at the very least, put down 50,000 words, during this month of Nanowrimo, however, between the stomach virus, my current, on-going battle with asthmatic bronchitis for over a week, my principal passing away, 5 days away from everything, it was not meant to be.
> 
> I’m not abandoning it, in fact, I will be able to develop my characters now and give it the attention it deserves. Sadly, it also means it will be added to my growing pile of on-going fics. At least, this one will be original and all mine.
> 
> This is all I have for this chapter. At 4,444 words, I think I’ll consider the chapter complete.

**__**

When the Ribbons Dance

**  
__  
**

Chapter 4

The good father was taken to the nearest dwelling and put on the table. Glenys rushed off to fetch Aelhaearn and someone else was sent to retrieve the village wise woman. The fires in the fireplaces were stirred to roaring, heating up the dwelling. The man was breathing, painful, racking breaths that rattled his chest. Aelhaearn arrived first, Glenys behind clutching a large satchel. Much to the priest's ire, his robes were cut from him, laying bare his pale, concave chest and abdomen. Glenys paid no attention to the man's protestations that she should not be there and continued pulling small bottles and sacks from the bigger bag.

“Please tell me,” Ioseph grimaced and wheezed as Aelhaearn pressed lightly on his ribs, “you did not send for that witch to attend me!” He let out another whimper of pain as the Druid pressed on another part of his chest. 

“Who, Efa?” Aelhaearn stepped back and motioned for water to wash his hands with. “She is no more a witch than you! Or me, for that matter!”

“The Church does not approve of her ways.” 

“The Church approves of little! They would not approve your friendship with me. A bunch of cranky old men who begrudge all of us a moment's enjoyment! Ah!” Aelhaearn looked up with a smile, towel in hand. “Efa! So glad you could make it!”

Physically, the old woman was the exact opposite of the Druid. Where he was tall, slender, and neat, she was short, grizzled and looked as if bathing was an option. She had a bulbous nose and was missing more teeth than she had in her mouth. “Make it? Is this a party?” The village wise woman was cantankerous and argumentative and her bed-side manner was nonexistent, but she knew her herbs and remedies. She pushed past everyone in the room and stood next to the Catholic Priest. “Ho! Lookit yer skinny arse! What happened to you? You look as if a horse ran you over!”

“Yes.” 

She turned to the druid with a grin. “Ah! It is a party!” Much to the consternation of the patient, she began to prod in the same places Aelhaearn had just pressed on and not as gently. She asked him to inhale, exhale, cough. “You've got a few cracked ribs,” she finally spat, “and some bruised ones as well.” She squinted at him in the dim light. “Who ran over you?” 

“Dafydd's Master at Arms, Cewydd.” She pressed again, causing the man to howl. “Woman! Do you mind?” 

She ignored the priest and continued questioning the druid. “That miserable toe rag?” She turned to her own bag of herbs and medicines and set Glenys to boil water. She pulled a bolt of linen from her bag and began to tear them into strips. “Why was he here making people miserable? Aelhaearn, do you have any turmeric?”

“Do I have turmeric? You never have turmeric, so of course, I have turmeric!” The Druid made a quick perusal of the jars spread out on the counter and grabbed one.”That miserable toe rag, as you so adroitly call him, was here looking for Prince Madoc!” 

Efa almost dropped her linen strips. “No! Please tell me, you didn't-”

“No!” Aelhaearn shook his head. “Of course not!”

“Good! I don't like any of Christiant's brats, but I especially do not like Dafydd!” She wet the strips in the hot water, apparently immune to the heat. She wrung them out and generously sprinkled the cloth with the pungent herb and turned to the priest. “You're going to hurt for a while and there is scant little I can do about it! If I could, I still would do even more scant less about it!” She flung her hand out at the men in the room. “Sit him up. I'm going to wrap his ribs!” 

It was not pretty, and obviously painful, but Efa had Iospeh's chest and ribs wrapped as tight as any modern day doctor, in Bronwyn's esteemed opinion! The man fussed and came as close to cursing as he could get, but the old wise woman hushed him quickly. 

“Those strips will have to be changed daily. I don't trust you with my granddaughter or anyone's granddaughter-” she waved away his protestations, “much less any of the boys! So you will just have to put up with my chicken-ass face!” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Aye, yer gonna hurt, but I'll get you healed!” 

“Efa,” Aelhaearn touched her elbow. “I can make the teas-”

She nodded to Aelhaearn to step in a quiet corner. “Aye, you can and I know he'll prefer your company, but I just want to pester the old coot for a while.” This made the old man snort. “It will be hard for him to declare me a witch, if the day comes, when I'm the one who healed him!” She turned back into the crowd. “Someone find me a few eggs and boil them for him to eat.” She began to rummage through her bag and pulled out an evil looking root. “Ah. Devil's Claw.” She smiled wickedly at the priest. Much to his horror, she laid it down and pulling out a small knife, proceeded to peel and cut it. “You and I, are going to become such good friends!”

**__**

~~~...~~~

Father Iospeh was wrapped in a blanket and helped back to the small hut that he lived in behind the church. Aelhaearn left him griping and grumbling and in the very capable hands of the village wise woman and healer.

“Aelhaearn!” the man hissed, once he was helped into his bed and covered, “you cannot leave me here with that-”

“If you say 'witch', I will tell her your bowels need cleansing!” Aelhaearn hissed. Truth be told, the old wise man was fed up to the teeth with the priest's moaning and complaining! “You are in the best hands besides mine in Cymru, you'd best be appreciative!” And with that, he left the priest's dwelling, promising before he left that if he'd shown improvement in a few days, he would bring some medicinal wine.

Meaurig was snickering at the gate as the Druid exited from the door. “Medicinal wine?” 

“Apple vinegar, so don't tell!” Aelhaearn moved ahead, calling down Glenys. “Did you get the roast? Has it been prepared for the pot?” 

Of course, it hadn't and grandfather and granddaughter, ambled down the road, through town, amiably arguing to and fro. Bronwyn followed behind, watching the obvious love and care between the two, despite the noise they caused.

“Before she was born, her father died, fighting the English.” Bronwyn was startled. She wasn't aware the knight...no, the lord, was walking with her. “She spends most of her time with her grandfather, but she spends her nights with her great aunt, although she will probably be alone in the cottage for the majority of tonight.”

Bronwyn pulled her shawl closer. It was cold and she was used to warmer climes. “Why will she be alone?” 

Meaurig was smiling. He nodded towards the ale house and ushered her inside. It was warm and he steered her towards the back, where the fireplace blazed merrily. Soon, he had Bronwyn sipping a warmed, spiced cider and he himself was hoisting a pint. He drained it and raised for another. “Her great aunt is Efa. Efa is Aelhaearn's sister. And Efa intends to drive the old priest crazy!”

“I'm sure,” the archaeologist murmured. “So Efa will be staying with Father Ioseph this evening?”

“Most likely.” They sipped their drinks before Meaurig spoke again. “You are quiet, which I am discovering is not like you. Is something on your mind?” 

He was direct and to the point, a characteristic Bronwyn appreciated. He seemed to want to talk and for a change, wasn't pestering her for information, yet. “The man who ran over Father Iospeh, Cewydd?”

“Yes.” The ale must have been excellent because when he raised his tankard again, the barmaid brought a pitcher. She took Bronwyn's mug and refilled it. 

“He called you 'lord'.”

Meaurig's smile was full of irony. “You caught that.” 

“Yes. Was he being cruel?” 

Meaurig shook his head. “No, wish that he were. I am lord over a small property and estate down on the coast on the banks of the Afon Lliedi. The keep is small, but the people are hardy.” He smiled in fond memory. “There is a family there who brew an ale so fine, that if I stayed in residence, I would be a drunk.” 

Bronwyn breathed in. “Llanelli? You are Lord of Llanelli?” 

The man shrugged. He seemed to be relaxing. ”Some call me that.” 

Bronwyn found a brick just behind Meaurig's left ear to focus on. Llanelli had been Royce's dig; a bustling town on an estuary on the Atlantic coast. It was a possible launch point for Madoc; Madoc who was not a legend, but real and alive, even if she hadn't met him yet. Madoc, a prince who the town was desperate to keep hidden, for obvious reasons. “It didn't sound as if he said it out of respect.”

“He didn't.” Meaurig face turned dark. “Cewydd is jealous. He is jealous of me and everything I have, even if it is not much.” He was slowing down, his goblet not emptying as fast. “King Owain awarded me the estate for what he claims were heroic deeds in battle against Henry II of England. You are familiar with him?” 

“Yes. I'm familiar with Henry II.” 

_And Henry the Seventh and Eighth..._

“Cewydd has been Prince Dafydd's Master at Arms for many years. And yet, despite his crawling and mewling and fawning, he has nothing, save a pair of rooms at one of Dafydd's smaller castles, to call his own. He is short, ill-tempered, bow-legged and is a coward. The one woman he asked to marry him, turned him down flat.” 

Bronwyn didn't know the man well enough to realize that he was becoming morose. “Really? Good for her!” She looked back down into her emptying cup. “What happened to her? Do you know?” 

The grin was ironic. “Aye. She married me.” 

**__**

~~~...~~~

“Her name was Adaryn.” Glenys sprinkled more herbs on the roast, added some water and covered it. “She was not much taller than you, dark haired and green-eyed. Everyone loved her.” She sat down next to Bronwyn and picked up a potato and began to peel it. “She sang. All the time. Meaurig called her his little bird.”

Bronwyn felt as if she contributed nothing so she picked up a carrot and began to peel it as well. “You said Northmen abducted her.” 

“Aye. Her family is from Llanelli, where Meaurig has a keep, but he has a house here in Ceredigion. Meaurig received word that he was needed on the Marches and he took a group of bowmen with him. He sent Adaryn to her family in Llanelli, but she never made it. Somewhere between Ceredigion and Llanelli, her party was ambushed. She was taken but never seen again.” Glenys picked up the bowl of potatoes and carrots and began to chop them.” For a moment, Glenys stopped preparing the meal, staring off into space. “Everyone was killed, but they never found Adaryn's body. Meaurig was devastated when he found out.” 

“He's held out hope she's still alive.” 

Glenys shrugged. “It's been five years. It looked as if Northmen raided down on the coast, but...” her voice trailed off. “but, why would Northmen come to the west side of the island?” She shook her head and dropped the rest of the vegetables into the pot with the roast and adding more water, swung the arm the pot was on further over the fire. “We've had no trouble from them in many years. It's most strange.” 

Bronwyn agreed.

_**~~~...~~~**   
_

Dinner was a grand affair, with the over-large roast and vegetables. There was fresh bread that made the archaeologist cry for her hips. Bronwyn asked several times who was expected, only to be ignored, or given a generic answer. She helped Glenys clean up and put things away. It was obvious Aelhaearn was expecting company; he kept checking the door and looking out, even after the sun went down.

“Where you this nervous when I came?” 

The Druid looked at her sharply. “Aye, but there was no one here to witness it.” He drew out a long pipe. “You should be a-bed.” He tapped something in the bowl from his pouch and lit it, a sweet smoke rising. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” 

She went to bed, determined to stay up. Glenys was rolled up on her pallet at the foot of Bronwyn's bed. Bronwyn grumbled as she changed into a night shift and blew out the candle. 

“Bronwyn! Psst!” There was a tugging at her toe. 

“What, Glenys?” 

“I'll wake you when he comes. Get sleep while you can!” 

And with that, Glenys lay down and Bronwyn closed her eyes.

**__**

~~~...~~~

She barely felt the first nudge as Glenys rose. In fact, Bronwyn turned back over and fell back asleep. It didn't last long, due to the noisy whispering and banging going on in the main room.

And Glenys poking her hard. “Wake up!” she hissed. “He is here!” 

It felt like an ungodly hour, middle of the night. Bronwyn rolled, heard talking beyond her door, which was left slightly ajar. Light from the fireplace crept through the crack, throwing wild, scrawny shadows on the far wall. 

“Keep your voice down.” Bronwyn's ears pricked. It was Meaurig. “You'll wake Aelhaearn's guest.” 

“You've a guest?” This was a voice she didn't recognize. “Perhaps, I should go elsewhere.” 

“Elsewhere, where?” Ah. Aelhaearn. “You've no where to go and I fear, my Prince, for your life! She would not harm you.” 

_Prince?_ Bronwyn, now wide awake, rose quietly from the bed and grabbed the day kirtle hanging from the post. She threw it over her head and tied the sides, best she could. She tiptoed to the door. 

Meaurig was there, as was Aelhaearn. A third man sat next to Meaurig, Glenys serving warmed up stew to all three. She caught Bronwyn's eye, standing in the door, and dropped her head.

“Hywel is in Ireland,” the man with his back to Bronwyn spoke up. He raised his bowl to Glenys. “This is good. Thank you.” He took a sip. “He has recruited an army of mercenaries in Ireland and has sent for Norse mercenaries .” 

“A mixed group of Hiberno-Norse, would be a difficult group of warriors to beat.” Meaurig waved the offered bottle away and picked up a piece of bread. He began to pluck it apart and after dipping them into a bowl of broth and meat, eat the small bits. “Is there any word of Iorweth or Maelgwn?” 

“Oh, there is much word of Iorweth, however I am more interested in the young lady hiding behind the door. Unless I am mistaken and 'tis a lad?” The man had turned around and was staring straight at Bronwyn. While she was quite certain who the man was, she was shocked when she looked at him. “Little brother, have you found a new songbird?” 

Meaurig rolled his eyes and stood up. He held his hand out. “She will not sing, all that I wish she would. Bronwyn. Come and meet my brother and prince.” 

It was an order, something that under normal conditions, the woman would balk at, however, this felt natural.  
 _  
And... and... you know... Madoc!_

Opening the door wider, Bronwyn stepped through, watching as Prince Madoc ab Owain Gwynedd stood up. “Meaurig. This is your... brother?”

“Half-brother.” Madoc took her hand and brushed the back with his lips. “Our mother learned quickly that the King of Cymru loves nothing but land and left him to pursue someone she would not have to share, which she found.” 

“She also found a man who would argue with her, just for the sport of arguing.” 

“Ah!” Bronwyn blurted. “That's where you get it from!” 

Madoc laughed, a joyous, open sound. “So, you have noticed that characteristic in my little brother!” He turned her loose and smiled. “Although, I dare say, she rejoices that she only has one son to worry about now that the king is dead, rather than several.” 

Madoc the Explorer was not as tall as his brother and was broader, however they had similar coloring and features. Madoc, however, smiled more than his younger brother and had a definite twinkle in his eye. 

“I suspect she worries about us both equally.” Meaurig sat back down and returned to his chunk of bread and cheese. “I will be at your side always.” 

Bronwyn found herself sitting on the bench between the two men, another bowl of stew thrust in front of her. “Where have you been hiding her, Meaurig?” 

“I'm new here.”

“She appeared on the old man's doorstep.”

“She's grandfather's grandmother's brother's cousin's great granddaughter's sister, visiting from Rome.”

“I conjured her.” 

All four spoke at the same time, causing Madoc to smirk and return to the dregs of his bowl. “This should be interesting.” He pointed at Glenys. “That is too funny to be believable. I have never heard you speak so many words.” He made the circle around the table, following his finger. “I am aware you are new here and I rather doubt, brother, that she magically appeared on Aelhaearn's doorstep. I do believe,” he stopped at the Druid, “you conjured her. But from where did you conjure her? She came from somewhere, for a reason.” 

“I'm not from Rome.” Bronwyn was shaking her head. 

“You speak our tongue well, but with a strange accent. Not a Roman one, however.” He was smiling, but she could sense the steel in his backbone and behind his grey eyes. “Aelhaearn, where is our guest from and how did she manage to get here beneath the very nose of my brothers?” 

Aelhaearn shrugged. “I told you, I conjured her.” Madoc twirled his fingers. “According to her, she is from 850 years in our future. She a historian and quite knowledgeable of the past, which would be us.” 

“She desecrated Aelhaearn's grave.” Meaurig spoke to his brother, leaning behind Bronwyn's back. 

“What?” Madoc looked at her in shock. 

“I am an archaeologist!” Bronwyn huffed. “I preserve and learn from history! I do not desecrate graves!” 

Meaurig was nodding. “She dug up Aelhaearn's grave and told him all about what was buried with him.” He leaned into Bronwyn and hissed. “He told me so! That sounds like desecration to me!” 

Aelhaearn was now standing and pacing. “I asked the Powers of the Moon to send us a great warrior with much knowledge-”

“But the Powers sent us her, she who will not tell us anything about the coming months and tribulations.” Meaurig sat down with a loud plop. “And she is too weak to wield a weapon.”

“Now, wait a minute, Meaurig,” the Druid interrupted, “she told me that Owain will be remembered for having too many sons and Hywel will be remembered as a great poet.” 

The only sound for several long seconds, came from the hissing and crackling of the burning logs in the fireplace. 

“A great poet, but not a great king.” Madoc murmured “That says much. Tell me, Bronwyn, the Conjured, why is it you will not tell my brother what he needs to do to put Hywel back on his rightful throne?”

Bronwyn look at Madoc, then to Meaurig, and then at Aelhaearn. Her sigh was audible. She was dancing a delicate dance. “I wish to watch history play itself out, without any meddling from me.” 

One side of Madoc's mouth lifted, the twinkle back in his eye. “I believe brother, you are wrong.”

“What?” This came from all four. 

Madoc set his empty goblet down and strode around the table. “Aelhaearn asked for a warrior with great knowledge. She is a great warrior indeed. She wields words with great care but swift, dangerous purpose. As she is so far from the future, I would think she has great knowledge, indeed.” Now, his countenance grew dark. “She would be very dangerous in the hands of Dafydd or Rhodri.” 

Bronwyn watched in indignation as Madoc and Meaurig eyed each other, imagining the two had some sort of secret, brotherly eyeball language. 

“Well!” Aelhaearn huffed before she could get any more irate. “I suppose we should do our best to keep her out of the hands of those two heathens!” 

“Yes! Let's!” Bronwyn quickly agreed. 

That sardonic, half-grin was back. “History does not look back well on my two brothers?” 

She didn't feel like she was giving much away. “No. History does not look favorably on either one of them.” 

The man cracked his knuckles. “Well then. That is a good thing. See?” He motioned to Meaurig. “She has just told us something very important.” He now stretched from obvious exhaustion. “Which means, we do not fight for aught.”

**__**

~~~...~~~

The fire had grown low in the hearth. Glenys moved her pallet close to it, while Madoc took Bronwyn's bed. Bronwyn sat at the table, the closest to the fire, with her notebook and Royce's Cross pen. Carefully, she jotted notes, updating her diary. One of the most important things her mother taught her growing up, was shorthand. “Quick, easy notes, in almost a dead language,” she would tell her only daughter. Royce thought it insane, but lucky for her, much of her discoveries and ideas were jotted down in this indescribable style that he nor his new wife could read.

“What are you writing?” 

Bronwyn jumped, startled. Madoc was sitting across from her, bleary eyed, but smiling. 

“My lord-”

Madoc shook his head. 

“What do you wish for me to call you?”

“Madoc.” He tapped the table just at the top of the notebook. “I do not recognize the writing.” He took in her look of confusion. “My father sired many sons, but he made sure all of us who wished it could read and write Norman French, as we fight with them so frequently. I also speak Italian and ***the northern French*** “ He leaned forward and whispered. “My Latin is horrible!”

This caused Bronwyn to laugh. “I had problems with French. German came much easier.” 

“German?” 

It was interesting and heady to sit in low firelight, speaking to a historical figure that history said may or may not exist, a legend she had been enamored with since she was a girl. If it was a dream, it was a glorious dream, one she hoped didn't end for a long time. It was a fantasy she never would believe would come true. “Holy Roman Empire. East of the French States.” 

He tapped again. 

Bronwyn's laugh turned into a grin. “I don't want to forget, so I am writing of my adventures while I am here and so I will have it when I am returned to my own time.”

Madoc leaned back, arms spread wide. “Go back? You wish to leave this auspicious company?” He leaned back forward, propping one elbow on the table, the bench creaking. “What could you possible be missing there?” 

Bronwyn's smirk was contagious. “Hot water and plumbing for starters.” She looked into the rafters, apparently lost in fond memory. “Trains, planes, and automobiles. Central air and heat...” 

Madoc was beaming from ear to ear. “Sounds like witchcraft to me.”

She shook her head. Conversing with this man was exhilarating. “No. Simply modern day technology.” 

“All these new words.” He picked up the pitcher and poured more ale into his goblet. 

“So, no husband or lover to return to? No one who would miss you?” 

Flashes of Royce flitted through her mind. “No. No one.” 

“Ah, there was someone,” he wagged his finger. “I saw him flit through your eyes.” 

Lying to Madoc was difficult, so Bronwyn didn't try. “My husband left and divorced me for a much younger girl.” She tapped the pen on her notebook. “I am no longer hurt and I do not miss him.” Bronwyn's eye reflected the fire in the hearth and it gave her an evil look. “She is welcome to him.”

Madoc smiled boyishly. “I am glad to hear that, for if you missed that stupid man, my brother would be heart-broken.”

Now, her smile fell. “I don't know why. He finds me a troublesome burden most days.” 

“You would be surprised at how highly my brother thinks of you.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

Madoc's looked aback. “Why?” 

Bronwyn picked up the pitcher and found it to be near empty. Setting it down, she chose her words carefully. “I will not tell him what he wants to know, therefore, I am useless.”

“Ah, yes.” He drained the last of his ale. “And you wish to watch history play itself out.”

She had been honest with Aelhaearn, she wanted to be honest with Madoc. “I'll not alter history.” 

The man set the goblet down with a well-worn smile. “Ah, that is a much different statement than _'I wish to watch history play itself out_.” His eyes rose. “I now fear Hywel will never sit the throne again.” 

Bronwyn was tired, but her curiosity was a well ingrained part of her personality. “Do you wish to be King of Cymru?”

The very thought seemed to terrify the man. “No!” His finger raised, in part, pointing at her. “You know! Does history say I am king?” 

Bronwyn's exhaustion was getting the best of her, so she rose from the table. She touched his shoulder as she went around him, heading towards the bedroom. “You are legend. You are myth.” 

She didn't see him blink rapidly in thought. “Myth is a story that cannot be proven.” 

“Or disproven.”

She had reached the doorway when he spoke again. “Who do they say I am?” 

Bronwyn put her hand on the doorway, staring into the darkness. “You are Madoc.” And with that she entered the room and crawled into the bed, fully clothed. 

She had forgotten and didn't realize that Meaurig was rolled in his cloak on the pallet at the foot of the bed. 

Awake and listening to every word. 

 

**_tbc_ **


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look. I'm back - Nanowrimo returns and so does my little story - which I WILL try to finish, if not this month than before Nanowrimo NEXT year! LOL!

**** __

_**When the Ribbons Dance** _

****__

_**Chapter 5** _

The days were now cold, the last of the harvest was in. The townspeople openly accepted Aelhaearn's strange guest and seemed happy that Madoc was in residence. He spent many meals at the Druid's, along with his brother, Meaurig. They spent many a late night, whispering in the low firelight but would stop whispering and change the subject when Bronwyn entered the room and sat down with them.

With the onset of winter, farmers were making sure food and wood were stocked for the coming cold months. Samhain had come and gone. Winter Solstice was on the horizon.

And Bronwyn knew what that meant. She prayed they didn't ask her.

Meaurig clung to the cottage. Bronwyn thought he was staying near his brother but refused to acknowledge he was really staying near her. If Aelhaearn sent her into the town, Meaurig went with her. He carried things, suggested things, reminded her of things. Sometimes, when she returned, his hand pressed to the small of her back, she found things in the basket she didn’t buy – a sweet she liked, a jug of honeyed mead. Once there was a ribbon…she tucked it away, before Aelhaearn or Glenys saw. She didn’t know what to think.

She just knew her dreams of the man left her heated and in a sweat.

One cold evening, the group – family, as Bronwyn was inclined to think of them, sat around the table, close to the fire. They were eating a hearty stew that Glenys made earlier in the day and slow simmered. The food wasn't as rich as Bronwyn was used to, but it was delicious and she developed a taste for it quickly. The priest, Iospeh, was sitting next to her. He had healed, but still moved slowly, either from age, cold weather in his joints, or his injuries at the hands, or the hooves, of Cewydd's horse. Conversation meandered from the amount of the harvest, the size of the herds, and Hywel's plans.

“I received a message from Dafydd,” Madoc was seemingly focused on his meal. The comment was back-handed, almost a whisper, that caught everyone's attention just by the sheer lack of pretense of it.

There were various grunts and such around the table.

“Do not stop on my account,” Ioseph was reaching the bottom of his bowl and motioned to Glenys for a refill. “I have no love for Cristiant's brats. Neither one is fit to rule a chamber pot, much less a kingdom.”

Bronwyn reached for Ioseph's bowl and stood with her own. She headed towards the cookplace. “What did he say?” she asked innocently.

Madoc snorted. “According to the messenger, my brother wishes no ill will towards me, but strongly suggests I show myself at Aberffraw to swear my fealty to him as king. And then,” he waved his fork with mock authority, “he wants me to stay, so he can 'protect' me.”

“Protect you from what?” Ioseph scoffed.

“The question should be, protect him from who?”

“I think you will be more protected rejecting your half-brother's so-called protection!”

Bronwyn slid the refilled bowl in front of the priest and sank down next to him. “What are you going to do?” She picked up her own eating utensil and proceeded to study her meal.

“You are not going!” Meaurig stabbed his eating knife into the table, causing Glenys and Ioseph to recoil. He jerked the knife from the pock-marked wood and pointed it at his brother. “The moment you are in Dafydd's hands, your life is forfeit!”

“I'm not stupid, little brother!” Madoc retorted. “I told Dafydd's messenger I would gladly swear fealty to the king and Dafydd was not the king!”

“I thought you said you weren't stupid?”

Madoc was laughing. He stood up with his bowl and took it to the sideboard, where Glenys had a bucket of sudsy water. “Oh, Cewydd wasn't happy, but he was alone-”

“He'll be back for you and when he returns, he will bring Dafydd's mercanaries!”

“True, that. I have no intention of being here when he arrives!” There was a carafe of Welsh wine atop of the fireplace mantle and Madoc took it down. Pouring himself a goblet, he set the carafe down on the table, taking his goblet with him, sipping from it. “Drink up,” he motioned to Ioseph. “It was a good crop!”

The priest took a sip. “You are correct. Very good crop!” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “Tastes like mine.” He cast an accusatory glance at Aelhaearn, before returning his nose to his chalice.

“I have no idea why you would think that,” Aelhaearn was quick to retort.

Bronwyn was quiet, listening in silence. “What are you going to do? As Meaurig said, Cewydd will be back and he'll bring a company of knights!”

Madoc was serious into his goblet. He took a long drink before murmuring, “Cewydd's messenger was not the only one I entertained this day.” The conversation around the table came to a halt. “I spoke to Grifri before dawn.”

Grifri?” Meaurig froze. “That's-”

“Hywel's messenger, to be sure.” Madoc was smiling. “Hywel is gathering an army of Irish and Norse mercenaries.”

“Hiberno-Norse?” Ioseph set his goblet down. “That is a fearsome group of fighting men to be sure.”

“To be sure, no doubt.” He leaned back in his seat, interlocking his fingers and cupping the back of his head. “I am leaving to return to my seat tonight. I will be calling up and gathering my knights and I will meet Hywel in Anglesey just after the Christ's Mass.”

“I suppose,” Aelhaearn spoke softly, “Maelgwyn knows his half-brothers are meeting on his island?”

“Knows, supports, and will aid and abet!” Madoc cackled. “Grifri is heading to Cadifor’s hall, to see if Hywel's foster brothers will join him.”

“See? To see?” Aelhaearn scoffed. “Of course, they'll join him! They are as close to Hywel as Rhun was.”

“No doubt Cadifor will join in as well, despite his age.”

“Never,” Meaurig growled, “tell a Welshman he is too old to defend his country!”

The conversation moved on, talk of weapons, talk of England, talk of war. At times, it was spirited, at other times, quiet, soft, conspiratorial. They were making plans, drawing battle lines, all the men fully engrossed.

No one asked what Bronwyn thought and for that she was grateful. Because had they asked her, she would have burst into tears.

~~~...~~~

The following morning, Bronwyn went into town, not necessarily to buy anything, as she had nothing to trade, but to clear her mind, give herself something else to think about. Looking for a distraction. It was windy, so she grabbed the only thing she had to tie her hair back – the emerald ribbon Meaurig bought and hid in her basket a few days back.

That distraction showed itself at her elbow not so long after. One minute, she was rubbing a fine wool cloth between her fingers; the next she felt a tug on her hair. Her hand went to her ponytail, feeling her hair fall and she turned to see who pulled the braid. She was not surprised to see Meaurig standing behind her, ribbon in his hand. 

“Ah. You did like it,” he smiled. “I wondered as I didn't see you wear it.”

“I do like it.” She reached for it, only for him to hold it from her reach. “Please. It's windy-”

“I rather like seeing your hair blowing about.” He handed it back, nonetheless. 

Bronwyn rebraided and tied her hair back again, trying to figure out where this man was coming from. In many ways, he made her feel like a teenager again. It was a heady, bothersome feeling. His throat clearing brought her back to this ancient reality. 

“Yes?” 

Meaurig's face was schooled and masked. “I asked what purpose found you at the market on this day?”

“Window shopping,” she blurted, not thinking.

Meaurig furrowed his brow. “Window shopping?” 

Bronwyn blushed and taking his arm, pulled him away from the vendor's cart, immediately missing the feel of the finely spun wool from beneath her fingers. 

“Window shopping?” 

“Uhm...” she maneuvered further into the thoroughfare, watching out for horses and carts. “window shopping. Just looking at... well... what's out there.” She began to stroll down the dirt street. “I have no money, so all I can do is look.”

“Ah.” 

It was silent for some time between the two of them, surrounded by the sounds of the hawkers and fishwives. On occasion, one would point out something that looked interesting and other would respond. It was a strange sort of courtship, a getting to know each other. He was surprised at her knowledge of horseflesh and weaponry. She was shocked at his keen sense of music, of the gentler arts. He claimed to play the lute and for some reason, she believed him.

At some point, there was laughter at his dry wit and underhanded sense of humor. He had no love for Owain's widow, nor her children. According to him, it was apparent that in their last years together, Owain had no love for Cristiant. As Bronwyn and many scholars suspected, he married her for her lands, adding onto the kingdom of Gwynedd. 

They talked, neither realizing or caring they had left the village and were now wandering the countryside. Meaurig pointed out landmarks, historical – ancient to Bronwyn – sites, including sacred Druidic monoliths, cairnes. Archaic sign posts and way markers. 

They wound their way down a hill, past plowed and brown fields, past the church, its vineyards and cemeteries. And to the back of Aelhaearn's home. The sun was past its zenith and Bronwyn was surprised she had talked the day away with this man who tolerated her. 

“Madoc has left for his estate,” Meaurig whispered. “to gather his men. He will stop at our mother's to ask my father if he and his men will join us. I leave tonight to attend to my estate and then go by their estate and bring those who will come.” He came around in front of her and took both hands. “Please tell me we do not fight for naught.” 

Bronwyn had a lump in her throat. To tell him anything could alter history, the future. 

It might alter it in a positive way. Hywel would be forewarned, he would win, he would become king...

Then again, it might not. Cymru survived its bloody history, much like England had, France had, the United States had.

“You tell Madoc and all to fight as if their lives depend on it. It does. Fight with everything they have because if Dafydd wins, he will not be kind to his surviving brothers.”

Meaurig snorted. “Aye. He will be a son of Wales and murder all of his kin.” He scoured the countryside, looking at it as if it might be the last time he would see it, and truth be told, it might be the last time he saw it. “Promise me you will not go out alone.”

“Meaurig-”

“Promise me,” his jaw stiffened, “promise me you will not venture out alone. Ever. Not even to go to the market. Always go with someone, during the day, preferably with Aelhaearn or one of the men left behind.” He looked to the sky, searching for something; an object, a thought, a person or thing. “Cynrig. Cynrig the Butcher.” He pointed behind the Druid's cottage. A plum of smoke was rising above the trees. “He lives just beyond Aelhaearn and passes by as he goes into the village. I will tell him to check with Aelhaearn each morning. If you need to go to market, he or one of his sons will escort you.” 

“Meaurig,” Bronwyn smiled, “I really think Cynrig has better thin-”

Before she could finish her sentence, his mouth descended, taking her breath. It wasn't a battle of tongues, of lips; more like it was a question, a gentle request. There was nothing of the warrior in it, nothing harsh nor anger. When she would look back at it, she would think how different this kiss was from the fighter. At some point, he cupped her face, fingers splayed over her cheeks, drawing her in closer into his heat. Unaware she had grasped him by his tunic, she pulled him closer, pulled herself closer.

By the time he pulled back, neither one could breathe. His eyes turned a stormy dark grey as he took her in from head to toe, memorizing her features. He took a step back. “Pray for us.” 

“I will.” 

“Tell Aelhaearn to send you home.”

“No. I will wait for you.” It was out of her mouth without thinking and she didn't regret it.

The rare, lopsided smile was rueful. “Ah, now that's a nice thought.” One shoulder hitched. “Will I come back?” 

“I don't know. Truly. I don't know.” 

He seemed to ponder that before nodding. “I'll come back for you and then we'll discuss what I am to do with you.” With that, he turned and lopped down the path, disappearing around the corner. 

The wind whipped up, snapping Bronwyn's hair about her face. She reached back to retie it and realized That Man had taken her ribbon.

~~~....~~~

With Madoc and Meaurig gone to return their respective seats to gather up their knights and fighting men, Aelhaearn's home was quiet and subdued. He tended to make small talk, spoke of herbs and healing tinctures. Efa joined him, both working side by side, filling chests and crates and small stoppered bottles with mixtures and remedies. Bronwyn watched, as did Glenys, both helping as they could. Often, Bronwyn pulled out her small notebook to take notes, write down ingredients, draw the plants, the recipe, trying to glean all the information she could from the old woman. Her friend back home, Ashley, quietly studied and taught the old ways for her Ancient Women of the World class, and Bronwyn knew this would be an education and a half for not only her friend, but her classes as well as her own private study.

_Will I ever get to go home?_

But as the days turned into weeks, Bronwyn thought less and less of home and more and more of Madoc and Meaurig.

Especially Meaurig. Ever since Madoc teased her about Meaurig's feelings, he invaded her thoughts more and more, specifically in her dreams. They were becoming heated, wanton. Initially, Bronwyn chalked it up to the fact she hadn't been touched since Royce left her; before that even. Looking back, she should have known he was having an affair. All the signs, the red flags, were up and there. Regardless, Meaurig was making her sweat and sweat in a good way.

Truth be told, for some weeks before Aelhaearn 'calling' her, she had been dreaming of a shadowy warrior, a tall, lean man, whose face was hidden in the shadows. His touch was heated and his kisses...

Bronwyn shrugged, not seeing that Aelhaearn was watching her closely. Meaurig was the opposite in physique and temperament to her ex-husband. Where Royce was blonde, Meaurig was dark haired, Royce features were regular and Meaurig's were sharp and well defined. Royce was quick to laugh, whether at his own jokes or, more than likely, at the expense of someone else. Meaurig didn't laugh. He didn't joke. He was stoic and hard.

Despite the colder weather, Ceredigion was bustling with an unusual energy. All noticed it and it worried them. The owner of the alehouse whispered to Aelhaearn that his inn was full every night of the week, odd and uncommon for that time of the year. The stables were full with over-flow; men, Welsh bowmen, carrying weapons and staying to themselves. There was no socializing, all talk spoken in whispers. There was rumor of war, rumor of peace. Hywel was gathering an army; Dafydd was to bow down, Christina was retiring to a nunnery at the behest of her daughters, her boys were preparing for war.

_Gossip, gossip everywhere._

“Ah, Robber of Graves,” Aelhaearn's voice humorously broke into her thoughts, “you are deep in speculation this eve.”

Bronwyn's head jerked up, the glow from the fireplace casting shadows over her face. “I'm sorry?”

Aelhaearn's knees creaked as he sat on the stool across from her. He had taken to leaning on a walking stick, whether from the cold or the obviously arthritis in his bones, who knew? “You have been very close-mouthed about Cymru’s future; our future. I fear it does not bode well for Cymru's true king. You pale at the mention of it.” Bronwyn's eyes fell. “Ah. I thought not. Please,” he leaned over and took Bronwyn's hands in his, “tell me we do not fall to the Norman's in my lifetime.”

Bronwyn's smile was a sad on as she held on. “Cymru will not fall to England during your lifetime.” She saw the question in the old man's eyes. “I lie to you not.”

“But Hywel will die and Dafydd will be king.” 

Bronwyn watched as Aelhaearn’s shoulders fell in defeat and grief. She leaned over and took his hand. The skin was thin, cool to the touch and she felt as if she held him any tighter, she would feel his pulse beneath her palm. “Tell me of Hywel. Everything you know. My time knows so little and… and…” her voice fell away. 

“And what?” 

She swallowed. “My time knows so very little,” she repeated. “There isn’t much information.”

“And that is why you write so much in your book.” Aelhaearn continued for her. “So that when you return to your time, your people, you will tell your people of us.” He turned her loose and struggled to stand. “We are a study to you. Nothing more.” 

“No!” Bronwyn stood up quickly and reached for him. “You are everything to me. Your people, your struggles, Mea-…” she stopped herself from finishing. She didn’t see Aelhaearn’s self-satisfied smirk. “I want to know. I _need_ to understand.” 

“Need. Such an interesting word.” 

Aelhaearn turned towards her and looked up. In the last week, it was if the wise man shrunk in size and it broke Bronwyn’s heart. She didn’t think he wanted much less needed false hope. The archaeologist had been walking a tight-rope, biting her tongue for weeks, trying to school her face when the men talked of the upcoming battle that she already knew the sad outcome to. “Please. Tell me of Hywel.” 

Aelhaearn made his way towards the shelf over the fire. He pushed things around, a gentle clinking of metal and brought down two finely wrought, jewel encrusted goblets. “My wife and I drank from these the day we were joined. They belonged to my mother, who was a great seer and prophetess. She foresaw the fall of Cymru.” He set them down and pulled a jug from a dark, hidden corner. “I am glad she did not live to see it and I thank the gods I will not live to see it either.” He poured honey mead from the jug. “This is not the priest’s. ‘Tis mine and a fine ale it is.” Filling both chalices, he pushed one towards her. “Drink.” 

Bronwyn did so and decided the Druid was correct: it was a fine brew, one that slid down sweet and was heady. She realized after a swallow that she would have to be careful or this fine concoction would have her talking her host’s ear off and God only knew what secrets she would spill. “Tell me of Hywel,” she repeated softly. 

And so he did. He spoke of a young prince, one beloved by those who knew him, save Cristiant and her sons, who viewed him as a usurper, as someone in the way, unworthy.

“Cristiant was hungry for her sons to inherit all the minute the first one was born, despite our olde laws,” Aelhaearn whispered. “She demands the ways of the Christian laws, regardless that the Christian Church not only does not recognize her marriage to Owain, but ex-communicated him for it. Her children are just as much bastards as the rest of Owain’s children!” He took a deep swallow of the dregs of his cup. “Long have the sons of Gwenydd fought each other over their inheritances. There are times I think perhaps the Christians are correct; give it all to one. But then I think again and fear it would be no help. Look at England,” He refilled his chalice. “They almost destroyed themselves over the whims of cousins.” He took yet another drink, his hand shaking. “Family is sacred. A brother should fight alongside his brother, not with him.” It was quiet for a moment while the old man drained his goblet and sighed. “Ah Rhun, none of this would be happening if you hadn’t died.” 

“Are you sure of that? That Rhun would have held this off?”

It didn’t take long for the old man to answer. “Aye. None would stand against him.”

Bronwyn listened to his words linger in the air, rising with the smoky tendrils from the cauldron. The crackle and hiss of the fireplace, a noise she had come to appreciate. “Who killed Rhun?” 

It was quiet for a while and Bronwyn feared the old man would not answer her, but eventually, he spoke, feeble and weak. “Cadwaladr.” Aelhaearn whispered. Deep in his cups and gone from the physical world, it was if his shell spoke. He turned his gaze on Bronwyn, fire reflected in eyes. “Aye, there is no proof, no eyewitness, no clue left behind, but as sure as my knees pain me, that bastard killed Gwynedd’s favored son. This fight would not be going on if he were still alive.” Quiet returned to the cottage while the two mused on their own inner thoughts. 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Daffyd could easily go after Rhun as he is Hywel.”

Aelhaearn was shaking his head. “No. Rhun was loved. No one would have stood against him.” For many minutes, it was silent in the cabin. “Cadwallon,” Aelhaearn finally whispered. “Daffyd reminds me of Cadwallon.” 

“Owain’s other brother?” 

“Aye.” Aelhaearn allowed himself to laugh freely. “Other brother. Do you know how many brothers Owain had? We Welsh,” he raised a finger to make his point, “spread our seed far and wide!”

Cadwallon ap Gruffydd had been one of many of Owain’s brothers. As a young man, he killed the three rulers of Dyffryn Clwd, ending the rein of Edwin Teneingl and annexing the kingdom into Gruffydd. What was so horrific about these killings were these kings were brothers to his mother, making him the murderer of his uncles. A few years later, a surviving uncle, Einion ab Owain ab Edwin and a cousin, Cadwgan ap Grown ab Owain, instigated an ambush near Llangollen, which killed him. Cadwallon was not remembered well in history; a murderer for power, murderer for land. But mostly a murderer of family.

“I knew Cadwallon. Knew him as a child, as a young man. Greedy. Claimed glory in the name of his father, but I knew. Anyone around him knew; he was greedy. Greedy for everything anyone had. Mean. Cruel. Daffyd reminds me of him. More than anyone.”

Bronwyn raked her brain, trying to remember everything she knew of Cadwallon and everything she knew of Daffyd. “That is quite frightening.” 

“Aye.” Again, the cottage became silent, save the sound of the flame in the hearth popping. “Madoc will survive, will he not?” 

Bronwyn shrugged. “Madoc is legend. He is myth.” 

The Druid’s face scrunched into a rare scowl. “I shall stop calling you Robber of Graves and name thee Mistress of Riddles.” 

“Mistress of Riddles,” she snickered. “What’s it gots in its pockets, Precious,” she whispered to herself. She giggled at her own bad joke. “That’s better than Great Whore of England.” 

Aelhaearn’s face shifted from a snarl to horrified. “Who said that?” 

Bronwyn’s shoulder appeared to be in a constant state of spastic misalignment. “One of Meaurig’s bowmen.” She waved a hand. “Don’t ask me to name him; I can’t, it was dark, and it doesn’t matter.” 

“’Tis not true!” Aelhaearn reached for the jug of wine and proceeded to refill both cups.

“I know that.” 

“But-“ he pushed Bronwyn’s goblet towards her, keeping his in his fist. 

“I know that. I _know_ that.” She reached for the draught and took a sip. The berry was sweet, but Bronwyn was quickly losing her taste for it. 

“Meaurig doesn’t believe you’re a whore.” 

“Meaurig doesn’t believe I’m female!” she retorted.

“Oh,” the Druid whispered under his breath. “He knows you’re female.” 

Bronwyn wasn’t listening and didn’t hear the old man’s muttering. “You knew Cadwallon? Aelhaearn! How old are you?”

He looked at her, the fire reflected in his eyes. “I can recall sixty eight Winter Solstices.” He nodded gently. “Aye, I feel it tonight. My mother was a wise woman and herbalist in the household of Queen Angharad, Owain’s mother. But,” his eyes twinkled, “you know about Queen Angharad.” Bronwyn nodded in the shadows. “He was a few years older than I, but my earliest memories were of my mother telling me to stay out of Cadwallon’s way. He was sneaky, mean, as a child. I’m sure had his mother known he would be responsible for the death of three of her brothers, kings in their own right, she would have smothered him at his birth. I know my mother would have drowned him like a litter of unwanted kittens had she known!” Both goblets and the bottle were now empty, and Bronwyn stood to dispose of them. “I got in his way once. I still have the scars across my back.” With that final pronouncement, Aelhaearn stood slowly and wandered off to his sleeping chamber, leaving Bronwyn to bank the fire and make her way to her own bed.

But it was some hours before she went to sleep.


	7. Chapter 6

**_When the Ribbons Dance_**

**  
  
**

**_Chapter 6_**

**  
  
**

Winter Solstice was coming closer, and with it, snows and colder weather. The sun hid behind clouds that didn’t rain nor snow, just kept the countryside in a dark, deep, dreary funk. A fire kept the home warm and a well-thatched roof kept it dry, but Bronwyn found that Glenys was keeping herself more and more at Efa’s, Efa rarely came to her brother’s hearth, leaving Bronwyn to keep the home clean and to cook the meals. At best, Bronwyn was a barely passable housekeeper and while she appreciated free room and board and had no problem cleaning up after herself, she found herself succumbing to the most retched of diseases – cabin fever. 

To add to the bleakness of the mood, Aelhaearn himself was not the congenial and merry host he had been for the previous four weeks. As Bronwyn feared, the moment he guessed Hywel would not reign victorious and take his father’s crown, but rather Cristiant’s sons would, it was if he had given up on life. For him, hope was gone, his mood was a dreary as the weather outside. He moped, was snappish. He complained of her cooking skills, or lack thereof, her inability to keep a decent house. Bronwyn had taken to bundling up and going outside to wander, even if it was just to the remnants of the back garden. Anything to get outside and leave the angry atmosphere. She herself feared she would demand he send her back and in fact was quickly coming to the conclusion that might be best, despite her promise to Meaurig. Madoc was real, he lived, at least for now he lived. In her heart, she no longer needed to prove he existed, much less present a paper backing her findings up. There was nothing academic about what she now knew. She was settled in her heart; this little obsession was over. Madoc lived and existed, and she was fine with that. Did it matter if he became Madoc, the Explorer? Her curiosity was sated. But the niggling scholarly voice in the back of her head continued to pester her. 

Did he really become ‘Madoc the Explorer’? Would he return from Pentraeth? If he did return from Pentraeth, would he return wounded? Return on his own two legs? Would he return angry that she didn’t tell him, warn him? 

And what of Meaurig? Would he return from Pentraeth? She was under no disillusion of the remote possibility that he’d stayed behind. His place was beside his brother and there was no doubt he had ridden off with Madoc. Would he live? Die? If he lived, would he hate her as well? Aelhaearn told her often the Meaurig had feelings for her. Hell, Madoc had stated that same so-called fact once. If he did have feelings for her, he certainly had a strange way of showing it. Personally, Bronwyn didn’t believe it. The man kept his distance, only acknowledged her during conversation at the table. 

Well, he did accompany her anytime she went to town… 

_And there was that kiss..._

And that promise. Was it a desperate plea, a plea from a man who feared he wouldn't return? 

A snowflake landed on Bronwyn’s nose. The drop of wetness jolted her from her thoughts and brought her back to reality. Staying here was becoming difficult at best. This wasn’t her time, her home, her place. ‘

She needed to come up with an alternative plan.

**_~~~...~~~_**

**  
  
**

True to Meaurig's promise, Cynrig the Butcher came by each morning to escort Bronwyn to town, if she needed to go. Initially, she refused the courtesy, however after several days of nowhere to go except the garden, she went if for no other reason, to get out of the cottage and leave Aelhaearn to his morose speculations. She missed the joyful old man and understood why he was so irate, but she wished he would take it out on someone else. Glenys certainly knew the man's mood swings and was staying away. With the snow and cold, traffic moving in and out of the town had stopped to a crawl. Only messengers on official business or someone with an emergency, determined place to be, were traveling on the road. On her first foray into the village, Bronwyn discovered Meaurig left several stipends for her, including the local tavern. _'Apparently',_ she smirked to herself, _'he knew Aelhaearn's mood swings and left provisions.'_

Soon after Meaurig left for his home to gather his knights and bowmen, the assistant to the spinner brought Bronwyn three bolts of wool; green, blue, and red. She recognized the blue bolt; it was the one she was fingering when he interrupted her the day before she left. 

“I don't understand,” Bronwyn stood in the doorway, looking at the material. It was beautiful, and gloriously woven. There was silvery-gray embroidery on the blue and gold on the red. “I didn't buy this.” She shrugged, fingering it again, falling in love with the texture between her fingers. “I don't have any money to even begin to pay for any of this.” 

“Lord Meaurig purchased it for you.” The assistant to the weaver smiled hopefully, lifting the heavy folds of fabric. “He thought it would keep you busy while he was away.” She looked at the material with longing. “He must be very taken with you!”

Obviously, the assistant thought Bronwyn was Meaurig's new squeeze. Feeling sorry for the girl, Bronwyn took the load from her arms. “My sewing skills are abysmal.” 

“Efa is an excellent seamstress,” the girl responded. “Glenys, as well.” 

Thanking her, Bronwyn shut the door with her heel and walking through the cottage, past the Druid, gently set the material on her bed. 

“Meaurig bought that for you?” 

“Aye.” Bronwyn returned to the doorway between her room and the main room. 

Aelhaearn sat, tapping his pipe with whatever it was he smoked. He lit the weed, a long, thin trail of smoke circling around his head. For a moment, she was reminded of the Gandalf of Tolkien's lore. “You should take it to Efa. You'll have something new to wear if Meaurig and Madoc return.” The stress on the word 'if' was obvious and it irked Bronwyn. 

“I will not alter history!” she spat over her shoulder. 

“Hywel will die and we will be under the thumb of Cristiant's brats! How could it be worse?” 

She stopped in her tracks, her back to the old man. How could she explain it? “How could it be worse?” she whispered. “They could die as well.” 

“You don't know if Madoc or Meaurig will live or die?” The old Druid stepped into her room. “You don't know, do you?” 

Bronwyn's shoulder's drooped. “No. No I don't.” 

Aelhaearn stared at her, a strange combination of wonder and malice. “You've said Madoc is myth.” 

“Madoc is legend.” 

“Your time knows nothing of Madoc or Meaurig?” 

“No.”

Aelhaearn came close, bearing down on her. “Does his myth and legend sing of his death?” 

“No.” 

“Does his myth and legend concern events that have already happened?” 

She could see where he was going. “Noooooooooo...”

A slow smile spread across his features. It was the happiest he had been in days. “Good. There is hope.” He reached out to take her hand. “Come. Let's discuss our next meal.” He led her from the room. “Perhaps we can talk Efa and Glenys to coming over to prepare dinner.” 

Bronwyn followed him back into the main room. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

**_~~~...~~~_**

**  
  
**

Dual plans were being made for the coming Christmas and Winter Solstice; the Church planning a pageant for Christmas Mass, while the resident pagans – more than just Aelhaearn and Efa – planned a Winter Solstice celebration. Mistletoe sprigs were gathered and pine cones were collected and put in bowls with cinnamon sticks.

“'Tis so pretty during this time,” Glenys had the blue wool stretch out across the table, making the outlines of a dress for Bronwyn. “And yet the moons following the Winter Solstice until spring, is so dreary and dark.”

“All the festive decorations are down,” Bronwyn agreed. “It's like the rooms are empty.”

“Dried up,” Efa interjected. “Just like my brother!” 

Aelhaearn was stirring something in the cauldron. “If you persist, you will get no honey apple mead!” 

“I have some at home,” the old woman sniffed disdainfully. “And mine is better!” 

Glenys began to cut the material with a sharp knife. “I hear that across the sea to the east, there are people in the far north, who burn a great log to frighten away the long night. Perhaps, we should do that.” 

“And where did you hear such an outlandish idea?” 

The teen bowed up. “Arvel's uncle is a sailor with a group of Hiberno-Norsemen-”

“Mercenaries!” 

She stiffened and continued. “He says that during the solstice, the Norse burn a large log during the longest night. Sometimes, it lasts for days and they have a great feast.”

Efa laid out the red as Glenys finished. “The talk of you! What nonsense!” 

“Actually, she is right.” Bronwyn defended the girl, coaxing a smile from her. “There are many traditions during the longest night. What Glenys speaks of is the Yule Log, celebrated in the Scandinavian Countries and the kingdom of Germany-”

“What festivals do your people keep and adhere to, Bronwyn?” Glenys held the cut blue cloth to the woman it was being made for, making sure there was plenty of room. Satisfied of the fit, she laid the cut blue material on top of the red bolt and Efa began to mark the outlines.

“I...”

“Well?” 

Bronwyn inhaled. “Where I come from, we celebrate Christmas, or Christ's Mass, but it seems my culture has robbed it of its original sentiment and replaced it with a huge merchandising ploy.”

“A what?” 

For not the first time, the archaeologist sighed, before smiling sadly. “A merchandising ploy. Rather than celebrating the holiday for the reason it was created – celebrating Christ's birth, celebrating family and time spent with them; instead it's become about how much money we spend on things, how grandiose we seem to others. It's all about the money.” She suddenly remembered the last Christmas gift her ex-husband gave her – a beautiful pair of emerald earrings. She found out about his affair two weeks later and a week after that, discovered he'd bought the earrings on her credit card and a similar pair of ruby earrings for his mistress, so in short, she'd paid for her own Christmas gift as well as his girlfriend's. 

Lucky for her, the jewelry store allowed her to return the earrings. They didn't want to until she pointed out her card was used fraudulently. She gave them Royce's contact information in order to collect on the ruby earrings.

Come to think of it, that was when her divorce turned extremely ugly.

“Bronwyn?” She snapped out of her reverie. Glenys was looking at her, eyebrows raised. “You miss your family, don't you?” 

Bronwyn looked around, realizing she was the center of attention from the small group of people. “My parents are dead. I miss them, but I would miss them anyway. I do not miss my ex husband. I...” she thought of Ashley. “I have a friend who has been my friend since I was young, but she has her own life now.” She did. Married and a toddler, Ashley's life was very different. The last time she saw Ashley was at her wedding. Their lives were moving in different directions and had been for some time. Communication was relegated to emails, the occasional phone call or Skype. Facebook likes. Ashley had been a good friend to her. Really. In thinking back, it seemed that Ashley did a lot of listening while Bronwyn gripped and whined and cried. She bent over backwards trying to help, find her a job stateside while she grieved the loss of her parents and the destruction of her marriage. She brightened, trying to lighten the mood and change the subject. “Why don't we plan to burn a Yule log just after the Winter Solstice? We'll go out and find the biggest log we can, several in fact. We'll have a feast, have Aelhaearn brew some of his finest ale and honey mead. We'll have a feast, roast something, bake up a lot of sweets and honeyed bread! We'll invite our friends, Father Iospeh?” She stroked the material just cut. “We can dress in our finery.” She nudged Glenys. “You can invite your young man. Arvel?”

Aelhaearn had been sitting at the side bench, near the fire. He pulled out a long pipe, and tapping something into it, took a long stick near his chair and lit it from the hearth. He set fire to the weed within his pipe and puffed until the smoke rose from it. “A feast is something we could all use. I think the Robber of Graves has made an excellent suggestion and we should plan fete of it! And aye,” with this he nodded to Glenys, “bring Arvel around. It is long past time I had a chat with him.”

“But Taid-”

“Don't,” he wagged a finger at her, “Grandfather me!” He drew in on his pipe. “'Tis too long past for that boy to announce his intentions. 'Tis too long past the time you should tend to your own hearth!” Glenys opened her mouth, but the old man cut her off. “Do not argue.” 

Glenys turned to Efa but her anwes mawr shook her head. “Do not come to me to intervene. He is right. As much as I love you, you cannot stay with me forever.”

“But you've never married!” 

“Do you wish to live alone all of your life, girl?” The girl hung her head. “I thought not. Have you finished marking the red? Good. We'll do a fuller skirt on the green. There is more of it.” Bronwyn wandered over, determined to aid in some way. The dresses were hers, so she wanted to appear useful. Quietly, she told them about the different cultural practices of the winter season from around the world. The Christmas Tree, the Yule Log, gifts, Hanukkah, mistletoe. She told them about a great musician who wrote an oratorio and a song so glorious, a king stood for it. 

Aelhaearn sat in the corner, out of the way, watching them while smoking his pipe. She shared so much, but hid more.   
But he was hiding things as well. Afte  
r all, he hadn't specifically asked for a warrior. 

He had asked for someone much different than what he told Meurig.

**_~~~...~~~_**

**  
  
**

Christ's Mass was a beautiful event. Bronwyn hadn't been to mass in ages and she had forgotten the beautiful pageantry that went along with it. She figured that the only person beside Father Ioseph who understood the Latin Liturgy in the large chapel, was herself and it almost brought her to tears. 

She missed her parents. She missed Ashley. And she found herself missing Meaurig. She prayed fervently that he and Madoc returned. 

She told Aelhaearn that she went to appease the old priest, but the truth was she was searching for something, some connection to her childhood, or a connection to this new life. Aelhaearn retorted he had never appeased anyone, not even his mother, for any reason and the two old men still got along reasonably well. 

But he knew she was restless and he didn't blame her.

**_~~~...~~~_**

**  
  
**

In the early afternoon, just after Christ's Mass, Aelhaearn and Bronwyn went into the woods just behind Aelhaearn's cottage to hunt for a suitable Yule log. She was still dressed in her Christmas finery, a white double linen shift with a red wool overdress. It opened at her thighs, showing off the gold threaded black-worked white beneath. One woman at the service told Bronwyn that even that sour-faced queen of Owain's would be jealous of Efa's obvious handiwork. The compliment made Bronwyn blush. Mindful of the mud and muck, Bronwyn lifted her skirts and tip-toed around the edges of the beaten path. 

“What are you looking for again?” 

Bronwyn was looking around bushes. “We are looking for a large log, one that has been down awhile and is mostly dried out.” She jumped a puddle. “One that will burn a long, long time.” 

Aelhaearn mimicked her movements, still spry at his age. “You have done this Yule Log tradition before?” 

“No.” She shrugged and continued on, seeing something interested beyond the path. She hike her skirts higher. “My best friend Ashley's family burned a Yule log. My family normally went over to their home to celebrate.” Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the imaginary scent of fresh baked apple pie. Ashley's home life was very different from Bronwyn's. Ashley's mom was a stay-at-home mom, Christmas was an all out decorating affair. Ashley joked about how her mom went to the mall and hobby stores, armed with a sketch pad and pencil. She then made all the decorations. Their kitchen was a wondrous place, full of smells and food; everything Bronwyn's family kitchen wasn't. There were times growing up, Bronwyn was jealous of Ashley for this reason, but it never lasted long, especially when there was a dig and Ashley had to stay home and go to boring school, where Bronwyn was 'too smart for her own good', while Bronwyn learned of things most children never experienced. 

She weaved further from the path, calling back to Aelhaearn. “Do you see me?” 

“Yes! I have found mistletoe and some berries, very good for decorating.” She heard the bushes rustling. “Your sleep has been restless as of late.” 

Bronwyn moved further into the woods. _Ah! There! The perfect log!_ Taking a small knife Efa had loaned her, she notched the tree nearby and began to work her way back to Aelhaearn and the path. Cynrig and his sons would retrieve it. “Yes.” 

“You've called out for Meaurig.” His voice sounded as if he was moving further away. “Anything I should know?” 

She notched another tree. “Well if you must, I've been dreaming of Meaurig since before I came here. For months, before I came here.” She stopped short of telling him they were more intense. She nicked the last tree before stepping out on the path. “Don't tell him. His ego is big enough.” 

Silence.

“Aelhaearn?” 

No Druid. 

She looked in both directions. “Aelhaearn?” 

There was a sharp pain to the back of her head and then it all went black. 

`

**_tbc_**

**  
  
**  
anwes mawr – great aunt  
Taid - Grandfather 


End file.
